THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


ISABEL  PROCTOR 


IN  THE 
SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

A  Tale  of 

TIDEWATER   VIRGINIA 

BY 

JOHN  HAMILTON  HOWARD 


"And  should  the  twilight  darken  into  night, 

And  sorrow  grow  to  anguish,  be  thou  strong ; 
Thou  art  in  God,  and  nothing  can  go  wrong 

Which  a  fresh  life-impulse  cannot  set  right." 

— George  MacDonald 


NEW  YORK:    EATON  &  MAINS 
CINCINNATI:    JENNINGS  &  GRAHAM 


Copyright,  1906,  by 
EATON  &  MAINS. 


T>S 


TO  MY  FATHER 

WHOSE      UNTIRING      LOVE     AND     DEVOTION     TO     MY     VENERATED 
MOTHER— AN    INVALID    FOR    MANY    YEARS- 
WERE   UNBOUNDED; 


TO  MY  MOTHER 

WHOSE     PROLONGED    SUFFERING    WAS     BORNE     WITH     CHRISTIAN 
FORTITUDE 

THIS    BOOK  IS  AFFECTIONATELY  DEDICATED 


MAP  OF  DISMAL  SWAMP  REGION  OF  TIDEWATER  VIRGINIA 


CONTENTS 


PROLOGUE 

Chapter  Page 

I.  Leaving  Home i 

II.  The  Rescue  of  Ezra 17 

III.  An  Unexpected  Meeting 24 

IV.  Gabriel  Arnold's  Nocturnal  Visitor 31 

V.  Uncle  Zeke  Tells  of  the  "  DARK  DAY  " 37 

VI.  Zeke  Makes  a  Discovery 47 

VII.  At  Nine  in  the  Morning 55 

VIII.  In  the  Pine  Woods 61 

IX.  Concerning  Jack  Mobaly 71 

X.  Dr.  Demster 80 

XI.  Leonidas  Makes  a  Friend 90 

XII.  The  Doctor's  Story 98 

XIII.  Arnold's  Case  is  Diagnosed 106 

XIV.  Count  de  Bussy 119 

XV.  Two  Surprises 124 

XVI.  Isabel's  Interest  in  the  Count 138 

XVII.  The  Rivals  Face  to  Face 148 

XVIII.  On  the  Very  Spot 157 

XIX.  Love-Making 163 

XX.  The  Strange  Woman 173 

XXI.  A  Plot  Disclosed 177 

XXII.  An  Exciting  Night 185 

XXIII.  Zeke's  Secret  Revealed 196 

XXIV.  Dr.  Demster's  Will 207 

XXV.  The  Hollow  Tree 220 

XXVI.  The  Suicide 226 

XXVII.  A  Change  of  Mind  236 

EPILOGUE 


LIST  OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 


Isabel  Proctor       -----      Frontispiece 
Map  of  Dismal  Swamp  Region  of  Tidewater  Virginia 

Facing  Prologue 

Facing 
Page 

The  Lake  of  the  Dismal  Swamp           -           -           -  20 

Medal  of  Legion  of  Honor  of  the  Second  French  Empire  66 

Dr.  Demster               -                       -           -           -           -  80 

The  Pine  Woods  at  Briarcrest — the  Lonely  Path        -  130 

Leonidas  Darwood                                       -           -           -  166 

The  Arnold  Homestead  at  Briarcrest               -           -  226 


IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 


IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES. 

PROLOGUE 

TIMES  and  places  are  made  conspicuous  by  events 
and  personalities.  Dates  are  given  significance  by 
the  measure  of  the  effect  upon  humanity  of  what 
they  represent.  The  village  of  Deep  Creek  would 
not  have  such  conspicuous  mention  here,  were  it  not 
for  an  event  or  two,  and  several  personalities.  The 
events  are  not  of  unusual  importance,  nor  are  the 
persons  exceptionally  notable,  but  for  the  purpose 
of  this  work  they  are  essential. 

The  characters  who  excite  the  greatest  interest 
are  not  residents  of  the  little  village,  and  Dr.  Dem- 
ster,  himself,  is  not  a  native.  The  old  physician  had 
a  more  profound  reason  than  the  practice  of  his  pro 
fession,  or  his  business  interests,  for  spending  his 
time  in  this  small  place.  But  few  ever  knew  his  mo 
tive. 

The  location  of  Deep  Creek  lends  much  interest 
to  the  place.  It  is  crowded  up  against  the  Great  Dis 
mal  Swamp,  and  this  forbids  the  hope  by  even  the 
most  sanguine  that  the  village  will  ever  become  a 
town.  If  they  forgot  themselves  and  indulged  a 
hope,  it  was  dispelled  by  a  sight  of  the  great  swamp 
which  shuts  the  place  in  on  three  sides. 


PROLOGUE 

Dismal  Swamp  has  created  an  interest  for  Deep 
Creek  which  it  otherwise  would  never  have  had. 
This  region  covers  a  part  of  six  counties  of  Virginia 
and  North  Carolina,  and  is  unlike  any  other  region 
of  similar  size  on  the  American  continent.  So  great 
is  its  extent,  and  so  impenetrable  is  this  vast  jungle, 
that  it  has  never  been  explored.  There  is  a  canal, 
which  bears  its  name,  extending  through  the  swamp, 
equidistant  from  its  eastern  and  western  borders, 
with  a  feeder  connecting  it  with  Lake  Drummond, 
but  from  the  depths  of  Dismal  Swamp  no  one  has 
ever  returned. 

There  are  well-authenticated  accounts  of  travelers 
and  hunters  who  have  entered  there  for  exploration 
and  sport,  but  none  returned  to  tell  of  his  adven 
ture.  Many  of  them,  misguided  by  the  deceptive 
Jack-o'-lantern,  have  lost  their  way  and  wandered 
into  the  depths  of  the  swamp,  believing  it  to  be 
a  light  from  the  window  of  some  swamp-settler's 
cabin.  From  time  immemorial  the  place  has  been 
infested  with  all  kinds  of  wild  animals  common  to 
this  latitude  of  North  America.  The  bear,  deer, 
fox,  panther,  catamount,  wild  cattle,  wild  dog,  many 
varieties  of  smaller  animals  and  all  kinds  of  native 
snakes  and  reptiles  flourish  within  its  murky  bor 
ders. 

Here  and  there,  too,  were  the  cabins  of  the  ab 
sconding  slaves.  Thousands  of  negroes,  in  order  to 
escape  the  lash  of  brutal  masters,  found  their  refuge 
in  this  vast  jungle,  and  reared  their  families  in  the 
freedom  of  swamp  life.  When  a  negro  disappeared, 
and  it  was  known  he  had  penetrated  into  the 


IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

swamp,  hope  of  his  capture  was  abandoned.  He 
was  beyond  the  reach  of  the  "Fugitive  Slave  Law," 
and  the  hounds  which  had  been  unleashed  to  run 
him  down  were  recalled. 

In  connection  with  the  absconding  slave,  two  an 
tagonistic  interests  conflicted.  One  was  in  the 
person  and  position  of  the  patrol ;  the  other  was  em 
bodied  in  the  shingle-getters.  The  patrol,  or  "pat- 
terole,"  as  he  was  commonly  called  in  the  South, 
was  an  officer  of  the  law,  whose  duty  it  was  to  pur 
sue  and  apprehend  the  "runaway,"  and  deliver  him 
to  his  master,  dead  or  alive.  The  contracting  shin 
gle-getters  encouraged  the  "runaways,"  and  under 
went  great  risk  in  protecting  them. 

Culpepper  Island,  a  high  tract  of  three  hundred 
acres,  difficult  of  access,  under  the  management  of 
one  Stephen  Crane,  was  a  favorite  rendezvous  for 
deserting  slaves  and  white  criminals.  This  refuge 
was  maintained  for  many  years,  and  was  a  prosper 
ous  place  of  its  kind,  until  a  posse  of  slaveholders 
made  their  way  into  the  swamp,  and  routed  the  pro 
prietor  and  destroyed  his  profitable  business.  Since 
the  raid,  Culpepper  Island  has  been  deserted  as  a 
residence,  though  the  dwellers  in  the  swamp  make 
their  way  to  it  in  search  of  game. 

Deep  Creek  is  on  the  line  of  travel  from  the  east 
ern  counties  of  North  Carolina  to  the  market  places 
of  Norfolk  and  Portsmouth  in  Virginia.  The  ar 
rival  of  the  Carolinians  on  their  way  to  the  markets 
was  an  event  for  this  village,  as  it  became  not  only 
a  place  of  recuperation  for  the  horses,  but  it  was 
converted  into  a  place  of  entertainment  and  ca- 


PROLOGUE 

rousal.  It  not  infrequently  happened  xfiat  a  typical 
North  Carolina  caravan  halted  here  on  its  way  to 
market  loaded  with  scuppernongs,  chickens,  ducks, 
eggs,  et  cetera.  With  the  caravan  were  men  in  fus 
tian  and  women  in  homespun,  who  stopped  for  a 
good  time  before  attending  market  next  day.  Upon 
any  of  these  occasions  the  village  was  lively  late 
into  the  night,  and  frequently  the  carousal  lasted 
until  morning. 

Three  doors  from  the  Dismal  Swamp  canal,  near 
the  point  where  the  Deep  Creek  road  breaks  abrupt 
ly  into  the  village,  stands  Audierne  Tavern.  Audi- 
erne  was  for  many  years  a  place  of  stirring  interest. 
Stories  are  told  of  tragic  events  that  occurred  be 
hind  its  closed  doors.  The  elders  of  the  village  en 
tertained  their  guests  by  relating  the  queer  and 
wicked  things  that  had  happened  in  the  old  tavern, 
and  believed  the  place  was  haunted  by  the  ghosts  of 
men  and  women  murdered  there  in  the  days  long 
gone  by.  At  all  events,  it  was  a  fact  that  blood 
stains  were  upon  the  floor  for  many  long  years. 


CHAPTER  I 
LEAVING  HOME 

THE  DARWOODS  were  an  old  Virginia  family. 
They  not  only  traced  their  lineage  back  to  the  early 
days  of  the  colony,  but  also  claimed  that  a  distin 
guished  representative  of  their  name  and  blood  was 
among  the  first  settlers  at  Jamestown,  and  had  per 
formed  conspicuous  service  in  the  formation  of  the 
colonial  government.  Members  of  the  family  had 
always  been  familiarly  associated  with  noted  Vir 
ginians,  and  closely  identified  with  the  fortunes  of 
the  Old  Dominion  from  the  remotest  period  to  the 
eventful  days  which  began  at  Fort  Sumter.  Few  of 
them  had  ever  gone  from  the  state.  They  were  clan 
nish,  and  believed  that  there  were  no  people  so 
suited  to  their  taste  as  those  with  whom  they  had 
been  intimately  connected — the  Virginians. 

Richard,  the  grandfather  of  Thomas  Darwood, 
who  was  now  the  head  of  the  family,  had  found  his 
way  down  the  James  River  to  Tidewater,  and  had 
made  his  home  in  Portsmouth,  on  the  Elizabeth 
River.  It  was  in  the  days  of  the  colony  that  Rich 
ard  went  to  Portsmouth,  and  there  for  three  gener 
ations  this  branch  of  the  family  had  lived  and  pros 
pered. 

Thomas  Darwood's  property,  entailed  from  his 

father,  Samuel,  was  situated  in  the  extreme  north 

i 


2  IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

end  of  the  town,  not  far  from  where  the  Elizabeth 
makes  a  sweeping  bend  into  the  land,  and  forms 
what  for  a  century  had  been  known  as  Magothy 
Bay.  On  the  maps  of  this  section  of  Tidewater,  as 
made  from  the  old  surveys,  the  bay  reminds  one  of 
the  hump  of  a  great  dromedary.  The  house  stood 
in  the  center  of  a  lot  of  more  than  ordinary  size.  It 
was  of  the  Dutch  style  of  architecture,  rather  low, 
and  spread  out  over  a  large  area  of  ground,  with 
an  old-fashioned  chimney  at  each  end,  built  against 
the  outside  of  the  house. 

Many  items  of  interest  were  told  of  the  mansion 
(as  it  was  called  in  other  days)  among  which  was 
the  fact  that  all  the  material  used  in  its  construc 
tion,  as  well  as  the  inside  furnishing,  was  brought 
from  across  the  sea;  and  that  in  the  spacious  par 
lor  Washington  and  LaFayette  had  held  many  of 
their  conferences,  out  of  which  plans  developed  the 
overthrow  of  British  power  in  America. 

Now,  in  the  very  room  where  the  General  and  the 
Marquis  had  discussed  and  planned  for  independ 
ence,  Thomas  Darwood  and  his  son  Leonidas  de 
bated  the  selfsame  subject,  but  with  a  different  ap 
plication.  In  the  one  case  a  nation  was  involved,  in 
the  other  the  individual  only.  Thomas  Darwood 
was  not  willing  that  Leonidas  should  exercise  inde 
pendence  of  thought  and  action  even  when  such 
freedom  in  no  sense  interfered  with  the  privilege 
and  comfort  of  any  one  else. 

"Will  you  be  gone  from  this  house?  And  the 
sooner  you  go  the  better  I  shall  like  it,"  said  Thomas 
Darwood  in  an  angry  tone. 


LEAVING  HOME  3 

"Yes;  let  me  get  what  I  claim  as  mine  and  I  will 
get  out  of  your  way." 

"The  sooner  it  is  gotten  together,  and  you  are 
from  under  this  roof,  the  more  contented  I  shall 
be." 

"Don't  worry  longer,  father.  I'll  soon  be  gone. 
The  sun  will  set  shortly,  and  I  must  find  shelter  to 
night,  but  where,  I  do  not  know.  I  trust  you  will 
not  be  unhappy  when  I  am  gone." 

"You  have  been  disobeying  my  orders,  and  no 
one  may  remain  in  this  house,  and  disregard  what  I 
command.  If  you  persist  in  your  foolish  fanaticism, 
and  continue  to  embarrass  me  and  all  the  family, 
remember  you  are  not  to  darken  that  door  again 
until  you  obey  me.  And  do  not  forget  that  when 
my  will  is  written  your  name  shall  be  left  out. 
Hitherto  you  have  been  obedient  and  respectful, 
and  your  liberty  in  this  house  has  been  unques 
tioned,  but  now  you  seem  bent  on  this  course  which 
I  positively  forbid.  Do  you  promise  that  my  wishes 
shall  be  respected?  Think  well  before  you  speak, 
as  much  depends  upon  your  decision.  Do  you  prom 
ise,  Leonidas  ?" 

"It  is  true  that  much  depends  upon  it — indeed,  I 
think  everything  depends  upon  what  I  now  do.  This 
is  surely  a  crisis  in  my  life." 

"Then  do  you  here  and  now  promise  to  respect 
my  wishes?" 

"I  do  not,  and  what  is  more,  I  cannot,"  answered 
the  son. 

The  father  was  excited  and  bitter.  The  son  was 
deliberate,  calm  and  loving;  and  though  he  was 


4  IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

precise  and  determined  in  every  word,  there  was 
the  kindest  consideration  for  his  father.  There  are 
times  in  life  when  it  is  necessary  to  do  contrary  to 
the  will  of  those  whom  we  hold  most  dear.  Such  a 
time  had  come  in  the  life  of  Leonidas  Darwood.  He 
was  about  to  leave  home,  and  the  patriarch  of  old 
who  heard  the  summons  of  God,  the  obedience  of 
which  involved  the  apparent  sacrifice  of  the  Son  of 
Promise,  did  not  hear  the  Divine  command  more 
distinctly  than  did  Leonidas  Darwood.  When  he 
heard  it,  he  was  ready  to  obey — to  go  out  not  know 
ing  whither  he  was  to  go.  And  though  he  went 
with  a  sad  heart,  he  was  brave  and  confident  in  the 
possession  of  an  enlightened  and  controlling  con 
science.  He  knew  he  had  done  no  wrong,  and  when 
he  had  refused  his  father's  request,  he  felt  there  was 
nothing  to  condemn  him,  and  everything  to  ap 
prove. 

To  Leonidas  Darwood  his  conscience  was  not  a 
convenient  thing  to  be  used  in  the  changing  events 
of  life,  but  a  real,  uncompromising  governor,  which 
often  forced  him  into  the  acceptance  of  unpleasant 
conditions,  as  well  as  the  refusal  of  conditions  that 
would  bring  aggrandizement  and  ease.  He  was 
now  ready  to  render  obedience  to  this  force,  and 
to  face  the  issues  of  life  as  they  came.  He  realized 
that  he  might  not  find  in  his  wanderings  a  place 
so  comfortable  as  his  home  had  been,  that  the  way 
of  life  might  be  rough,  and  that  he  might  be  called 
to  endure  privation  and  suffering  to  the  last  de 
gree;  but  his  decision  was  unconditional. 

"Did  I  understand  you,  Leonidas,  or  am  I  being 


LEAVING  HOME  5 

deceived  by  my  own  ears?"  asked  the  father,  look 
ing  at  his  son  in  great  surprise,  while  his  face  red 
dened  with  anger.  "Tell  me:  am  I  mistaken?  Do 
you  really  intend  to  leave  home  rather  than  obey  my 
commands  ?" 

"Father,  I  am  sure  you  understand  me,"  an 
swered  the  young  man.  "I  mean  just  what  I  have 
said,  and  my  purpose  is  fixed.  I  shall  leave  home 
and  never  enter  it  again  except  upon  your  invita 
tion.  From  this  day  and  hour  I  shall  not  consider 
it  my  home,  since  I  cannot  enjoy  freedom  of  opin 
ion  and  freedom  of  conduct,  when  my  opinions  and 
conduct  are  in  harmony  with  the  right." 

"Have  you  thought  carefully  of  the  step  you  are 
about  to  take  ?"  asked  the  father,  grinding  his  teeth 
tightly  together. 

"I  have,"  replied  Leonidas,  "and  my  decision  is 
final  unless  you  reconsider  yours." 

"That  I  will  never  do,"  cried  Mr.  Darwood,  and 
his  face  became  scarlet.  "You  shall  reverse  your 
opinion  on  this  social  question,  and  cut  the  acquaint 
ance  of  that  Proctor  girl,  or  leave  this  house  never 
to  return.  You  know  it  is  embarrassing  to  me, 
considering  the  social  standing  of  the  Darwoods,  to 
have  you  associate  with  a  girl  who  is  recognized  as 
a  servant  of  such  a  man  as  old  Gabriel  Arnold." 

Thomas  Darwood  paused,  becoming  more  and 
more  enraged  as  he  thought  of  Isabel  Proctor  as  a 
prospective  daughter-in-law.  Taking  Leonidas  by 
the  arm  and  striking  one  foot  upon  the  floor,  he 
screamed  aloud :  "The  Proctor  girl  and  all  the  Ar 
nold  tribe  must  be  abandoned,  or  you  must  go. 


6  IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

Which  will  you  do?"  Then  grinding  his  teeth 
again,  and  shaking  his  fist  in  his  son's  face,  he  said, 
"Remember,  sir,  I  mean  just  what  I  say." 

"Father,"  replied  Leonidas,  kindly,  "I  trust  I  am 
not  displaying  a  spirit  of  disrespect,  but  my  deter 
mination  is  as  fixed  as  yours.  You  have  created 
the  conditions  upon  which  I  may  remain  at  home. 
They  are  conditions  with  which  I  cannot  comply, 
and  save  my  self-respect." 

"Self-respect!"  roared  the  father.  "You  sacri 
fice  your  self-respect  by  leaving  home  on  account  of 
the  low  tribe  you  are  bent  on  associating  with,  and 
by  entertaining  such  absurd  opinions  concerning 
society.  Do  you  know  who  this  Proctor  girl  is,  and 
do  you  have  any  idea  of  the  kind  of  man  Gabriel 
Arnold  has  shown  himself  to  be?" 

"I  do  not  know  Mr.  Arnold  very  well,"  answered 
Leonidas.  "I  have  seen  him  a  few  times,  and  I  con 
fess  that  personally  I  am  not  attracted  to  him;  but 
so  far  as  Miss  Isabel  Proctor  is  concerned,  I  have 
never  heard  the  first  word  of  reproach  uttered 
against  her,  and  I  am  sure  her  conduct  has  always 
been  commendable  whenever  it  has  been  my  pleas 
ure  to  meet  her." 

"Don't  call  a  servant  girl's  conduct  'commenda 
ble'  in  my  presence !"  cried  Thomas  Darwood,  with 
the  energy  of  a  man  on  fire  with  rage.  "I  will  not 
suffer  such  indignity.  I  repeat  it.  Don't  talk  about 
the  'commendable'  conduct  of  a  servant  girl.  Nor 
will  I  permit  you  to  say  that  it  was  a  pleasure  to 
meet  her." 

"Discussion  is  useless,   it  seems,   father,"  said 


LEAVING  HOME  7 

the  young  man,  kindly.  "The  matter  is  fixed.  You 
have  created  the  conditions.  I  cannot,  and  will  not 
comply  with  them.  I  will  go,  and  go  now,  and " 

"Then  you  are  determined?"  interrupted  the 
father,  still  hoping  to  convince  his  son.  "You  mean 
to  be  a  friend  of  the  Proctor  girl.  Do  you  mean  to 
marry  her?" 

"I  do  not  know  what  the  future  has  in  store  for 
either  Miss  Proctor  or  me,"  replied  Leonidas,  "but 
if  our  lots  are  cast  together,  the  fact  that  Isabel 
Proctor  is  poor  and  dependent  shall  be  no  bar  to 
any  legitimate  relation  that  may  arise  between  us." 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  would  love  and  marry 
such  a  poor  thing?"  insisted  the  father.  "I  ask 
again,  is  this  your  meaning?" 

"I  mean  that  her  poverty  would  not  prevent  it," 
replied  Leonidas.  "When  I  leave  home  I  shall  be 
as  poor  as  she,  and  will  be  compelled  to  make  my 
way  in  the  world.  Father,  I  would  rather  love  and 
marry  a  poor  girl  of  unquestioned  character  than 
trust  my  fortune  with  the  richest  woman  in  Tide 
water  Virginia,  if  she  were  without  the  sterling 
quality  of  virtue  that  goes  to  make  a  noble  charac 
ter." 

"Then  you  mean  to  leave  home  on  account  of  a 
servant  girl,"  said  the  father  in  derision.  "You 
mean  to  go;  do  you?" 

"I  mean  to  go,  father,"  said  Leonidas,  "but  it  is 
not  on  account  of  any  woman  that  I  have  come  to 
this  decision.  If  it  were  any  other  girl  in  question 
than  Miss  Proctor,  or  any  other  family  than  Ga 
briel  Arnold's,  my  decision  would  be  the  same.  I 


8  IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

simply  do  not  believe  in  the  strictures  you  place 
upon  the  class  of  people  they  seem  to  represent." 

"But  Gabriel  Arnold  is  not  only  poor,"  said  the 
father.  "He  is  a  man  that  should  be  ignored.  At 
one  time  he  possessed  considerable  wealth,  and  be 
cause  of  his  prodigality  he  has  squandered  his 
means." 

"What  became  of  his  wealth?"  asked  Leonidas. 

"He  has  lived  a  very  depraved  life,"  answered 
Mr.  Darwood.  "He  has  been  a  chicken-fighter  and 
a  horse-racer,  and  has  done  all  the  mean  things  im 
aginable  by  which  he  has  gotten  rid  of  his  money, 
and  now  he  is  as  poor  as  a  church  mouse." 

"It  is  too  bad  if  Mr.  Arnold  has  lost  his  fortune 
by  wicked  or  questionable  means,"  said  Leonidas, 
"but  if  he  were  poor,  simply,  I  should  not  think 
the  less  of  him  on  account  of  his  poverty.  It  surely 
is  no  disgrace  to  be  poor,  and  it  should  be  no  re 
flection  on  Isabel  Proctor  to  be  the  niece  of  Mr. 
Arnold  because  he  has  lost  his  money." 

"But  do  you  know  there  is  a  grave  suspicion  con 
cerning  him,  lately?"  asked  the  father.  "Nobody 
knows  just  what  the  trouble  is,  but  those  who  have 
been  intimate  at  the  home  of  Gabriel  Arnold  are 
shaking  their  heads  and  talking  in  an  undertone. 
Of  course,  I  do  not  know,  nor  does  anyone  else,  but 
I  should  take  no  chances  in  becoming  allied  to  a 
family  of  which  this  man  is  the  head." 

"Of  course,  father,"  observed  Leonidas,  after  a 
pause,  "I  do  not  know — indeed,  I  have  not  the 
faintest  idea  as  to  what  your  insinuation  implies,  but 
if  the  extreme  suspicion  that  rests  upon  Mr.  Arnold 


LEAVING  HOME  9 

should  be  well  founded  I  do  not  see  how  it  should 
affect  his  niece.  Any  rule  of  society  that  discounts 
a  person  because  of  poverty,  or  because  of  undesir 
able  family,  when  the  individual  is  pure  in  charac 
ter  and  otherwise  worthy,  is  cruel,  and  I  shall  never 
be  influenced  by  it." 

"You,  then,  mean  to  associate  with  Isabel  Proc 
tor,  no  matter  what  she  or  her  uncle  proves  to  be?" 
demanded  Mr.  Darwood,  in  a  rage. 

"I  mean  that  I  shall  not  be  influenced  by  what  he 
proves  to  be,"  said  Leonidas,  "and  if  there  is  no 
good  reason  to  be  found  in  Miss  Proctor's  own  char 
acter  why  I  should  shun  her,  I  shall  treat  her  as 
courteously  as  if  she  were  a  member  of  the  wealth 
iest  family  in  Tidewater." 

"Then  you  are  blindly  in  love  with  the  hussy,  and 
do  not  care  for  consequences,"  said  the  father, 
quickly.  "Are  you  stark  mad?" 

"Stark  mad,  father?  no!"  exclaimed  Leonidas,  "I 

am  in  my  right  mind,  but  I  do  not  see  the  matter 

as  it  presents  itself  to  you.    Never  a  word  of  love 

'has  passed  between  Miss  Proctor  and  me.    We  are 

friends,  only." 

This  statement  seemed  to  surprise  the  father. 
There  was  a  pause  in  the  conversation,  and  a  mani 
festation  of  some  embarrassment  on  the  part  of  Mr. 
Darwood.  His  face  changed  color,  his  elbow 
slipped  from  the  mantel  and  his  arm  hung  limp  at 
his  side.  It  was  a  moment  before  either  spoke. 

"Then,  then,"  said  the  father,  slowly,  but  with 
determined  emphasis,  "why  can't  you  promise  to 
have  nothing  more  to  do  with  her  ?" 


io  IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

"I  do  not  promise,"  said  Leonidas,  "because  your 
position  is  unjust  and  cruel." 

"But  suppose  her  uncle  proves  to  be  a  criminal?" 
said  the  father.  "There  are  grave  suspicions  con 
cerning  him,  as  I  have  told  you  before." 

"It  may  be,"  said  Leonidas,  "that  I  shall  be  as  de 
sirous  as  you  are  to  avoid  Mr.  Arnold,  but  there 
may  not  be  the  slightest  reason  why  I  should  desire 
to  turn  my  back  upon  his  niece." 

It  was  now  evident  to  Thomas  Darwood  that 
reasons  other  than  those  already  employed  must 
be  advanced  in  order  to  change  the  young  man's 
views  concerning  Isabel  Proctor.  He  believed  his 
son  knew  more  of  her  than  he  was  willing  to  ad 
mit.  Indeed,  he  thought  there  was  an  intimacy  be 
tween  them  that  was  almost  certain  to  grow;  and, 
unless  something  were  done  to  prevent  it,  he  had 
no  doubt  that  Leonidas  would  marry  the  girl.  This 
intention  he  proposed  to  thwart  at  whatever  cost. 

"Leonidas,  listen  to  me,"  said  the  father,  sharply, 
feeling  that  at  last  he  had  devised  an  argument  that 
would  cause  the  young  man  to  dismiss  Isabel  Proc 
tor  from  his  thought.  "Do  you  know  who  this  girl 
is?" 

"Yes,  father,"  said  Leonidas,  "she,  as  you  know, 
is  Mr.  Arnold's  niece.  Her  parents  are  dead,  and 
I  know  there  are  reasons  for  believing  that  she  is 
not  treated  kindly  by  her  uncle." 

"I  thought  you  did  not  know  the  mystery  con 
nected  with  this  girl's  life,"  said  the  elder  Darwood, 
"or  I  am  sure  you  would  not  become  intimate  with 
her,  and  when  you  know  it,  I  shall  be  surprised  if 


LEAVING  HOME  n 

you  do  not  discard  her  at  once,  and  despise  her 
name." 

"What  is  the  mystery?"  asked  Leonidas,  not  a 
little  surprised.  "I  have  not  heard  it.  Does  it 
affect  her  personal  character?" 

"I  am  not  sure  that  it  does  affect  her  personal 
character,"  admitted  the  father,  reluctantly,  "but  it 
makes  her  unfit  for  the  association  of  any  one  bear 
ing  the  Darwood  name." 

"I  will  hear  it,  father.  What  is  it?"  asked  Le 
onidas,  showing  signs  of  anxiety.  "Does  it  affect 
her  good  name?" 

"It  is  not  certain  that  the  Proctor  girl  is  the  niece 
of  Gabriel  Arnold,  as  she  is  believed  to  be,"  said  Mr. 
Darwood,  contemptuously.  "She  is  regarded  as  his 
niece,  and  I  have  referred  to  her  as  such,  but  at  the 
same  time,  I  knew  of  the  doubt.  Her  parentage  is  in 
question,  and  no  one  knows  certainly  who  she  is. 
Of  course,  she  lived  with  the  Proctor  people,  but 
they  were  as  much  in  doubt  as  to  her  identity  as 
anyone  else.  There  has  been  a  great  deal  of  specu 
lation  about  the  girl's  antecedents.  You  know  if 
there  were  not  something  to  conceal,  more  would 
be  known  about  her.  The  question  about  her  birth 
and  parentage  constantly  arising,  places  a  stigma 
upon  her  name,  and  because  of  this,  she  can  never 
be  admitted  to  respectable  society.  Then,  besides, 
well,  well—" 

There  was  a  break  in  the  relation  of  the  story, 
and  the  father  paused  to  observe  the  impression 
made  on  Leonidas's  mind.  The  young  man  was 
deeply  affected,  but  his  purpose  was  in  no  sense 


12  IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

changed  by  the  implied  mystery,  although  he  felt 
anxious  to  know  more  of  Isabel's  history.  He  won 
dered  if  there  were  a  chapter  in  her  life  that  was 
dark  enough  to  make  it  necessary  to  conceal  it  from 
the  public,  and  he  tried  to  push  the  inquiry  further. 

"Father,  do  you  mean  that  Isabel  Proctor  is 
not  pure?  Has  she  ever  done  anything  that  any 
woman  of  the  best  Virginia  family  might  not  do? 
This  is  what  concerns  me.  I  am  not  so  anxious  to 
inquire  into  the  parentage  or  birth  of  people,  as  I 
am  to  know  what  they  are  in  themselves.  Tell  me, 
is  Isabel  Proctor  of  questionable  character?  Is  she 
disgraced  by  anything  for  which  she  is  responsible?" 

"No,  but  the  mystery,  the  mystery  of  her — her — 
birth  and  parents!"  stammered  the  father.  "The 
Proctors  themselves  could  not  explain  the  mystery 
about  her." 

"How  did  the  Proctor  people  come  by  her?" 
asked  Leonidas,  with  a  tone  of  sadness  in  his  voice. 

"Well,"  replied  Mr.  Darwood,  impulsively,  shak 
ing  his  head,  "as  in  many  another  case.  The  fam 
ily  into  which  the  brat  was  born  paid  some  old  hag 
to  dispose  of  her,  and  she  was  left  at  the  door  of 
the  Proctor  people  with  the  hope  that  they  would 
take  care  of  her.  They  took  the  child  in  and  did 
their  best  for  her  as  long  as  they  lived.  Since  their 
death  she  has  made  her  home  with  Gabriel  Arnold, 
and  believes  him  to  be  her  uncle,  for  she  never 
knew  any  other  parents  but  the  Proctors." 

"Strange,  strange,"  said  Leonidas,  in  an  under 
tone. 

"Strange  enough,"  returned  the  father,  sharply. 


LEAVING  HOME  13 

"What  about  the  girl?  What  do  you  propose  to 
do?" 

"Is  it  not  more  important  to  know  what  people 
are  than  to  know  who  they  are?"  asked  Leonidas. 
"I  would  rather  know  that  Miss  Proctor  is  a  young 
woman  of  strong,  pure  character,  than  to  be  told 
that  she  is  of  royal  parentage." 

"I  will  hear  no  more  of  this  nonsense,"  said  Mr. 
Darwood,  greatly  indignant.  "Say  nothing  to  me 
about  sympathizing  with  people  of  questionable 
origin." 

For  the  first  time  Leonidas  lost  his  composure, 
and  his  excitement  was  manifest  in  his  reply. 

"If  this  story  be  true,  Miss  Proctor  deserves  our 
sympathy  and  not  our  censure.  I  cannot  see  that 
anything  you  have  said  should  affect  her  in  the 
least.  She  is  poor,  and  the  circumstances  of  her 
birth  may  be  peculiar,  but  since  she  is  a  girl  of  pure 
character  and  has  always  borne  a  good  reputation 
there  is  no  reason  in  anything  you  have  said  for  dis 
honoring  her.  I  certainly  shall  not  do  it." 

Mr.  Darwood  stood  motionless  for  a  moment 
meditating  upon  what  Leonidas  had  said.  He 
thought  he  grasped  his  son's  meaning.  Moving 
quickly  to  where  the  young  man  stood  he  placed 
his  hand  on  his  shoulder  and  demanded: 

"Leonidas  Darwood,  do  you  mean  that  you  would 
marry  the  hussy,  and  bring  her  into  the  Darwood 
family,  and  disgrace  our  name  forever?" 

"Father,"  said  Leonidas  with  more  composure, 
"I  have  no  thought  of  marriage  yet,  nor  am  I  in 
love;  but  there  is  nothing  you  have  related  about 


14  IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

Isabel  Proctor  that  would  influence  my  affections; 
and  when  the  time  comes  for  me  to  marry,  the  fact 
that  she  is  poor,  or  that  there  is  a  mystery  connected 
with  her  birth,  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  de 
termining  her  fitness  to  become  my  wife.  I  should 
not  consider,  either,  the  fact  that  I  am  a  Darwood, 
and  that  our  family  is  of  high  social  standing." 

"Then  you  will  have  her  in  spite  of  my  protest  ?" 
said  the  father,  sharply. 

"If  it  should  turn  out  that  I  love  the  girl,  yes, 
sir,"  replied  Leonidas,  quickly;  "and  nothing  you 
have  said  against  her  would  in  the  least  influence 
my  mind." 

"Leonidas,  Leonidas,"  said  Mr.  Darwood  in  a 
commanding  tone  of  voice,  "tell  me  why  you  per 
sist  in  this  fanaticism  and  disregard  of  social  laws  ? 
Will  you  explain?" 

Mrs.  Darwood,  who  had  been  an  eager  listener 
to  this  conversation,  now  entered  from  an  adjoin 
ing  room  and  advanced  timidly  toward  Leonidas. 
He  moved  to  meet  her,  but  the  father  sternly  warned 
her  to  the  other  end  of  the  room. 

"Thomas,"  said  she,  gently. 

The  father  turned  angrily  toward  her,  and  Le 
onidas  begged  her  to  let  them  settle  the  matter  as 
soon  as  possible. 

"Not  long  since,"  resumed  Leonidas,  "I  attended 
service  in  a  church  in  Dinwiddie  street — a  church  of 
the  Methodist  sect.  It  was  my  privilege  and  great 
pleasure  to  hear  the  Reverend  Vernon  Eskridge,  an 
unpretentious  man,  discourse  on  the  Beatitudes. 
While  I  may  not  be  able  to  enter  into  the  details  of 


LEAVING  HOME  15 

the  sermon,  I  have  a  vivid  recollection  of  the  man 
and  the  spirit  he  manifested,  and  much  of  what  he 
said.  Somehow,  I  could  not  then,  and  cannot  now, 
escape  the  conviction  that  what  he  said  was  true. 
From  the  moment  the  preacher  began  his  sermon 
his  countenance  was  full  of  light,  as  if  he  believed 
with  all  his  heart  the  interpretation  he  had  placed 
upon  the  Beatitudes.  I  then  and  there  determined, 
come  what  might,  to  accept  that  teaching  and  con 
form  my  life  to  it." 

"What  did  the  preacher  say  was  the  meaning  of 
the  Beatitudes?"  asked  Mr.  Darwood,  showing  some 
interest  in  what  his  son  had  said. 

"Well,"  said  Leonidas,  "he  declared  that  Jesus, 
the  Great  Teacher,  took  a  view  of  life  different  from 
that  accepted  by  people  generally.  In  the  world  the 
preferred  classes  are  the  rich  and  those  who  have 
had  an  easy  time  in  life,  and  those  who  stand  well 
in  society;  while  in  the  Beatitudes,  the  preacher 
said,  it  was  clear  that  Christ  pronounced  blessings 
on  the  very  opposite  of  these.  It  was  the  poor  in 
spirit,  the  mourners  and  the  persecuted  who  excited 
the  Great  Teacher's  sympathy,  and  upon  whom  he 
dispensed  his  favors.  Father,  this  is  a  new  idea  in 
society,  and  it  is  revolutionary,  but  it  impresses  me 
as  being  the  great  need  of  the  world,  and  I  have 
determined  to  be  a  humble  disciple  of  him  whose 
purpose  it  was  to  give  the  oppressed  a  helping 
hand." 

"Then  it  becomes  a  matter  of  religion,"  said  Mr. 
Darwood,  excitedly.  "Of  religion!  You  get  it 
from  the  Bible,  do  you?" 


16  IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

His  upper  lip  curled  and  his  nostrils  became  dis 
tended. 

"Yes,"  said  Leonidas,  kindly,  "it  is  certainly  the 
teaching  of  the  Bible,  and  was  exemplified  in  the 
life  of  Christ." 

Thomas  Darwood  was  nonplussed  by  the  state 
ment  Leonidas  had  just  made  and  the  spirit  he 
showed.  He  saw  his  son  as  he  had  never  seen  him 
before.  In  his  heart  he  felt  the  young  man  to  be 
sincere,  but  he  was  proud  and  stubborn  and  would 
not  retract. 

"Leonidas,  my  decision  is  final,"  said  the  father, 
resuming  the  spirit  he  had  shown  earlier.  "You 
shall  decide  the  matter  now,  once  for  all.  This  is 
your  only  opportunity.  Stay  without  your  religion 
and  the  servant  girl  or  go  with  them." 

"I  will  go,"  was  the  son's  quiet  response. 

"Then  go  you  must,  and  go  at  once,"  roared  the 
father,  striking  his  foot  upon  the  floor. 

Leonidas  stepped  to  his  mother.  She  was  weep 
ing.  Putting  his  arms  about  her  neck  he  kissed 
her  upon  one  cheek,  then  upon  the  other,  repeating 
the  caresses  again  and  again.  He  had  voice  to  say, 
"Good-bye,  mother.  God  bless  you."  Then  turn 
ing  to  his  father,  he  simply  said,  "I  hope  you  will 
see  it  as  I  do  some  day." 

"O,  Thomas,  what  have  you  done?"  sobbed  Mrs. 
Darwood. 

Leonidas  was  gone. 


CHAPTER  II 
THE  RESCUE  OF  EZRA 

TOWARD  evening,  October  16,  1861,  a  company 
of  traders  from  Carolina  had  gathered  at  Deep 
Creek.  The  villagers  were  all  interest  and  excite 
ment,  for  these  occasional  visitations  meant  noise 
for  the  entire  night,  and  sometimes  were  fraught 
with  more  tangible  consequences,  as  a  broken  limb, 
a  bruised  head,  or  a  stab  in  the  back  was  not  un 
common.  With  a  liberal  supply  of  Dismal  Swamp 
whiskey,  the  product  of  moonshiners,  furnished 
at  Audierne  Tavern,  no  one  was  sagacious  enough 
to  guess  all  that  might  transpire. 

Just  after  the  market  folk  had  crowded  into  the 
village,  and  before  early  candlelight,  an  itinerant 
bear  trainer  appeared.  His  bear  was  muzzled  and 
a  chain  was  attached  to  a  strong  strap  about  his 
neck.  The  trainer  seemed  to  have  absolute  control 
of  the  animal,  for  commands  were  obeyed  as  read 
ily  as  they  were  given.  The  bear  stood  upon  his 
head  against  the  tavern,  waltzed  to  the  music  of  a 
jew's-harp,  and  performed  many  other  antics,  which 
furnished  entertainment  for  the  Carolinians  as  well 
as  the  native  denizens  who  had  appeared  at  the  ad 
vent  of  the  trainer.  There  was  nothing  unusual  in 
the  appearance  of  the  bear  to  interest  the  crowd  now 
filling  the  streets,  except  that  he  was  not  of  a  species 


i8  IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

common  to  Dismal  Swamp.  His  color  was  not  that 
of  the  ordinary  black  bear  found  in  this  vicinity; 
he  was  much  larger  in  size,  and  displayed  greater 
intelligence  than  his  brothers  of  the  swamp. 

Against  one  of  the  posts  which  supported  the  di 
lapidated  old  shed  in  front  of  Audierne,  holding  the 
chain  in  one  hand,  and  a  long  hickory  staff  in  the 
other,  stood  the  bear  trainer.  The  performance  had 
ended,  and  the  bear  was  lying  quietly  upon  the 
ground,  with  his  head  resting  upon  the  right  foot 
of  his  master.  The  crowd  had  dispersed,  leaving 
only  a  few  of  the  market  folk  lingering  near  the 
trainer  and  his  animal.  Among  those  still  loitering 
about  was  the  most  ill-favored  of  the  entire  com 
pany,  and  it  was  easily  perceived  that  he  did  not 
belong  to  the  Carolinians.  He  did  not  wear  the 
customary  fustian,  but  was  attired  in  a  soiled  red 
shirt,  with  the  sleeves  rolled  up  within  an  inch  or 
two  of  his  shoulders.  The  torn  collar-band  stand 
ing  open  exposed  his  breast  halfway  to  the  waist. 
His  slouch  hat  had  a  broad  brim,  and  the  crown  was 
battered  in  from  the  side.  On  his  feet  were  unusu 
ally  large  rawhide  boots,  into  which  his  coarse 
trousers  were  thrust.  He  held  in  his  hand  a  leather 
whip. 

Near  him  stood  a  well-dressed  woman,  looking 
around  as  if  in  search  of  some  one.  She  had  been 
present  at  the  beginning  of  the  performance,  and 
had  scanned,  with  a  wild  and  anxious  expression 
in  her  eyes,  the  men  as  they  moved  about.  She  ex 
cited  some  curiosity,  but  no  one  knew  who  she  was. 
It  was  clear,  too,  that  she  was  not  one  of  the  market 


THE  RESCUE  OF  EZRA  19 

women.  The  rough  man  put  his  hand  upon  the  wo 
man's  shoulder  and  pushed  her  aside  as  he  took 
his  position  nearer  the  bear  trainer. 

Silently  Jack  Mobaly  (for  this  was  the  man's 
name)  stood  erect  for  a  moment,  placed  one  foot 
before  the  other,  drew  his  body  back,  and  with  a 
terrific  lunge  forward,  cracked  his  great  whip  in 
the  direction  of  the  sleeping  bear.  His  aim  was  ac 
curate.  The  lash  struck  the  bear  in  the  eye.  The 
animal  immediately  rolled  over,  tossed  as  if  in  great 
distress,  then,  springing  to  his  feet,  threw  himself 
upon  the  trainer  and  instantly  forced  him  to  the 
ground.  He  stood  with  one  paw  upon  the  man's 
breast  and  with  the  other  he  scratched  the  earth, 
throwing  the  dirt  upon  the  men  standing  near.  He 
ran  from  his  victim,  but  soon  returned,  swinging  in 
a  curious  manner,  and  rolling  his  great  head  from 
side  to  side,  apparently  to  keep  time  with  the  awk 
ward  movement  of  his  body.  He  was  thoroughly 
aroused,  and  seemed  determined  to  tear  his  vic 
tim  to  pieces.  With  his  paw  again  upon  the  man's 
body  he  tore  his  long  garment  into  rags.  The  bear 
inflicted  several  wounds,  one  of  which  was  over 
the  left  eye,  running  across  the  temple  well  into  the 
hair,  making  a  conspicuous  gash.  The  blood  flowed 
until  it  stood  in  a  pool  under  the  man's  shoulders. 
Then,  with  one  mighty  stroke  of  his  fore  feet,  the 
bear  tore  away  the  muzzle  that  had  confined  his 
mouth,  and  flung  it,  with  the  chain  rattling,  into  the 
midst  of  the  frightened  men,  who  broke  away  from 
the  scene.  His  mouth  being  released  the  bear 
planted  his  teeth  in  the  fleshy  part  of  the  man's 


2O  IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

body  and,  tasting  blood,  grew  more  infuriated. 
The  victim,  in  his  native  "Yiddish,"  cried  aloud : 

"Gewald!  Gewald!  In  Gots  numen  rahtivit 
mich." 

Then  the  poor  man  said  in  a  plaintive  tone: 
"Schema  Isroel!  Adonai  Elehenu!  Adonai  Echod!" 

A  young  man  carrying  a  satchel  entered  the  vil 
lage,  as  this  cry  fell  upon  the  air,  and  hastened  to 
ward  the  commotion.  As  he  quickened  his  pace, 
he  heard  more  distinctly  than  before,  though  the 
voice  was  weaker,  "Schema  Isroel!  Adonai 
Elehenu !  Adonai  Echod !" 

He  could  not  completely  interpret  the  language  of 
the  sufferer,  but  it  flashed  upon  him  that  "Schema 
Isroel"  was  the  plaintive  appeal  of  every  Jew  in  sore 
distress.  He  had  learned  by  his  association  with 
Jewish  friends  that  these  were  the  first  words  of 
the  familiar  sentence,  "Hear,  O  Israel,  the  Lord  is 
our  God.  The  Lord  is  one."  Which  signified  mo 
ments  of  extraordinary  suffering  and  danger. 

He  reached  the  point  where  the  only  two  streets 
of  the  village  intersect.  Turning  the  corner,  he  saw 
the  crowd  and  pushed  forward.  The  sight  of  a 
man  flat  on  his  back,  with  the  teeth  of  a  grizzly  bear 
at  his  throat  and  blood  upon  the  ground  in  every 
direction,  confronted  him. 

"Gewald!  Gewald!  In  Gots  numen  rahtivit 
mich,"  the  man  gasped,  feebly. 

The  young  man  determined  what  should  be  done, 
and  that  it  must  be  done  quickly,  if  the  Jew  was  to 
be  saved  from  the  mad  animal.  On  the  ground 
under  the  shed  in  front  of  the  tavern,  and  not  far 


THE  RESCUE  OF  EZRA  21 

from  where  the  man  and  the  bear  were  struggling, 
lay  a  cedar  post.  It  was  about  six  inches  in  diameter 
at  one  end,  and  tapered  to  a  point  at  the  other,  with 
here  and  there  upon  it  stumps  of  smaller  limbs. 
This  the  young  man  perceived  to  be  the  best  weapon 
available  with  which  to  attack  the  bear.  He  took 
the  post  and  leaped  forward,  striking  the  animal 
with  the  sharp  end. 

His  purpose  was  accomplished,  for  the  bear  be 
came  more  furious  and  turned  upon  his  assailant, 
running  toward  him  with  his  mouth  open  dripping 
with  the  blood  of  the  Jew.  When  the  animal  came 
with  long  strides,  and  with  the  characteristic  move 
ment  of  the  body  and  head,  the  young  man  leveled 
the  post  and  with  all  his  strength  launched  it  for 
ward,  striking  the  bear  just  over  the  eye  that  had 
been  wounded  by  the  whip.  The  animal  staggered, 
but  soon  recovered  and  made  another  attempt  to 
reach  his  assailant.  The  young  man  was  ready  for 
the  next  attack,  and  with  gigantic  strength  struck 
the  bear.  This  time  the  end  of  the  post  entered  the 
animal's  mouth,  and  ran  several  inches  into  its 
throat.  Finally  the  bear  was  crowded  into  a  corner 
at  the  end  of  the  tavern  steps,  the  young  man  forc 
ing  the  post  still  farther  into  its  throat. 

"Take  the  man  up.  Take  him  up.  I'll  attend  to 
the  bear,"  shouted  the  young  man,  who,  with  the 
aid  of  one  of  the  company,  soon  ended  the  life  of 
the  infuriated  beast. 

The  bear  trainer  was  borne  away  to  a  cot  in  the 
tavern,  and  when  the  door  closed  behind  him  a  vil 
lager  leaped  upon  a  cart  and  shouted  at  the  top  of 


22  IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

his  voice:  "Fellows,  this  chap  has  done  what  we 
were  afraid  to  try.  Here  go  three  cheers  for  Le- 
onidas  Darwood!" 

The  words  were  followed  by  hearty  cheers  from 
the  few  men  who  had  remained  to  witness  the  finish 
of  the  fight. 

In  the  meantime,  Jack  Mobaly,  who  caused  all  the 
trouble,  slipped  away  unobserved,  except  by  one  or 
two,  and  made  his  way  to  an  old  grist  mill. 

When  the  animal  lay  dead  Leonidas  took  his 
satchel  and  went  into  the  tavern  to  make  inquiry  as 
to  the  condition  of  the  injured  man,  who  lay  upon  a 
rough  cot  in  one  corner  of  the  room  with  his 
wounds  still  bleeding  freely.  His  rescuer  stepped 
lightly  to  his  side  and  lifted  his  hand  to  feel  the 
strength  of  his  pulse.  Before  the  young  man  had 
spoken  a  word  the  suffering  Jew  raised  himself  upon 
one  elbow,  and  with  the  other  hand  supported  him 
self  in  a  half  upright  position,  saying  haltingly : 

"Ich  wil  schtarben  fiir  dir.  Die  hust  gerahtinvit 
mein  laben.  Ich  wil  gehen  fiir  deer  in  feier  und  in 
waser." 

The  Yiddish  was  unintelligible  to  Leonidas,  but 
by  repeated  efforts  at  imperfect  English  the  Jew 
made  him  understand  that  he  would  go  through  fire 
and  water  for  him,,  or  that  he  would  die  to  prove 
his  gratitude  for  his  rescue  from  the  teeth  of  the 
bear. 

Ezra  was  a  native  of  Poland,  and  had  been  in 
America  less  than  a  year,  traveling  with  his  bear 
ever  since  he  came.  He  loved  Poland  devotedly, 
and  never  would  have  forsaken  the  "Fatherland" 


THE  RESCUE  OF  EZRA  23 

but  for  the  trying  conditions  which  obtained  there. 
He  had  not  done  so  until  the  last  hope  of  Poland's 
independence  had  vanished.  He  had  been  conspic 
uously  identified  with  Polish  politics,  had  been  ex 
iled  to  Siberia,  escaped,  and  came  to  America. 

Ezra  was  a  patriot,  and  the  cause  of  his  patriot 
ism  was  to  be  found  in  the  tradition  of  his  family, 
as  he  believed  it,  and  often  related  it.  Early  in  the 
fourteenth  century  Casimir  the  Great  occupied  the 
throne  of  Poland.  He  had  taken  to  himself  a  beau 
tiful  Jewish  mistress,  Esther  by  name,  who  bore 
him  two  sons  and  two  daughters.  The  names  of 
the  sons  were  Niemertz  and  Pelka.  Ezra  claimed  to 
trace  his  lineage  back  to  Casimir  through  the  house 
of  Pelka,  and  had  always  seemed  proud  of  his  claim. 
Though  he  was  assured  by  tradition  that  his  pro 
genitor,  Pelka,  was  the  son  of  illicit  love,  still  he 
felt,  in  a  sense,  that  he  was  a  child  of  royalty.  This 
conviction  strengthened  his  love  for  Poland,  and  for 
Poland  he  would  have  died — if  that  would  have 
freed  her. 


CHAPTER  III 

AN  UNEXPECTED  MEETING 

"MR.  DARWOOD!  Mr.  Darwood,  is  that  you?" 
came  a  sweet  voice,  apparently  through  the  under 
growth,  as  Leonidas  was  making  his  way  toward  a 
house  that  stood  in  the  center  of  Briarcrest,  the  es 
tate  of  Gabriel  Arnold.  Leonidas  was  surprised, 
and  paused  for  a  moment  to  listen  for  a  repetition 
of  his  name.  He  stood  motionless  for  a  time,  look 
ing  about  him  and  listening  for  any  sound  that 
might  fall  on  the  still  night  air.  He  was  not  mis 
taken,  for  he  heard  again,  in  a  distinct  voice,  which 
this  time  could  be  recognized,  "Mr.  Darwood,  is 
that  you?" 

"Yes,"  responded  Leonidas,  as  Isabel  Proctor 
wended  her  way  down  a  footpath  through  the  myr 
tle  thicket  to  where  he  was  standing,  still  looking 
about  him  to  discover  whence  came  the  voice. 

"What  brings  you  here,  Mr.  Darwood,  at  this 
late  hour  of  the  night?  Is  it  not  unusual,  particu 
larly  on  such  a  night  as  this  promises  to  be  ?"  asked 
Isabel,  as  she  stood  trying  to  read  his  face  through 
the  darkness. 

"It  is  a  long  story,"  said  Leonidas,  "and  I  cannot 
tell  you  now.  But  may  I  not  ask  why  you  are  here? 
It  is  quite  late,  and  a  storm  is  approaching.  It  seems 
strange  to  meet  you  in  this  lonely  place  at  night,  and 


AN  UNEXPECTED  MEETING  25 

especially  this  kind  of  a  night.  Why  are  you  here? 
Are  you  out  on  some  important  errand?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Isabel,  "I  have  been  in  search  of 
a  doctor.  I  was  detained  on  the  way  home.  I  was 
just  coming1  back  by  a  nearer  route  through  the 
myrtle  thicket  when  I  heard  footsteps,  and  stopped 
to  discover  whose  they  might  be." 

"Who  is  ill?"  asked  Leonidas,  fearing  that  sick 
ness  in  Gabriel  Arnold's  home  would  make  his  en 
tertainment  for  the  night  impossible. 

"Uncle  Gabriel  is  not  well,  and  I  am  greatly  con 
cerned  for  him,"  responded  Isabel.  "Indeed  I  am 
alarmed  at  times.  For  some  time  past  he  has  acted 
as  if  he  might  lose  his  mind.  He  has  walked  the 
floor,  and  has  not  wanted  anybody  near  him.  He 
has  also  talked  to  himself  in  an  undertone,  although 
I  could  never  learn  what  he  said.  Now  he  has  col 
lapsed  utterly.  When  I  left,  uncle  was  raving  mad. 
I  trust  the  doctor  is  with  him  and  has  pacified  him 
by  this  time.  I  met  Dr.  Demster,  the  Deep  Creek 
physician,  and  he  consented  to  come.  The  doctor 
is  a  very,  queer  old  man  himself,  but  I  was  glad 
to  get  anyone  in  the  emergency.  This  is  my  expla 
nation.  But  Will  you  not  tell  me  why  you  are 
here?" 

"I  cannot  tell  you  all  now,  Miss  Proctor,"  replied 
Leonidas,  as  he  took  Isabel  by  the  hands,  and  drew 
her  nearer  to  where  he  stood  looking  into  her  eyes 
as  the  lightning  played  across  the  clouds  in  the 
west.  "I  cannot  tell  you  now,  Miss  Proctor,  but  I 
am  homeless  and  looking  for  a  shelter  to-night, 
and " 


26  IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

"Homeless,  Mr.  Darwood!  What  do  you  mean?" 
cried  Isabel  in  great  surprise,  before  Leonidas  could 
finish  his  statement.  "Not  homeless?" 

"Yes,  homeless,"  replied  Leonidas.  "My  father 
has  turned  me  out.  I  thought  I  might  find  shelter 
at  your  uncle's,  but  I  suppose  as  he  is  in  such  a  con 
dition  as  you  describe,  this  will  be  impossible.  I 
was  just  making  my  way  over  there  when  I  heard 
your  voice,  and  stopped  to  be  sure  that  it  was  you. 
I  am  glad  I  met  you.  Do  you  think  it  worth  while 
for  me  to  go  farther?" 

"I  fear  Uncle  Gabriel  will  not  receive  you  kind 
ly,"  said  Isabel,  "but  Uncle  Zeke  will,  I  am  sure, 
and  you  must  hurry  there  before  the  storm  breaks. 
Zeke's  cabin  is  not  very  inviting,  but  it  will  be  a 
shelter  from  the  storm;  and,  besides,  you  will  be 
welcome.  Tell  him  I  sent  you." 

"Thank  you  for  the  suggestion,"  said  Leonidas, 
"and  when  you  are  safe  at  home  I  shall  find  Uncle 
Zeke." 

The  two  started  through  the  myrtle  toward  Ga 
briel  Arnold's  house,  Leonidas  still  holding  Isabel's 
hand.  The  night  was  perfectly  still,  and  not  a 
sound  could  be  heard  save  the  occasional  rumbling 
of  distant  thunder. 

Breaking  the  silence,  Isabel  said: 

"Mr.  Darwood,  you  have  not  told  me  why  you 
were  ordered  to  leave  home.  Will  you  tell  me  now? 
I  am  sure  you  have  done  right,  but  I  am  very  de 
sirous  to  hear  your  story.  I  am  sure  you  will  tell 
me." 

"In  time  you  shall  know  all,  and  might  know 


AN  UNEXPECTED  MEETING  27 

now  but  for  the  lateness  of  the  hour  and  the  ap 
proaching  storm,"  said  Leonidas.  "Wait  until  a 
more  favorable  opportunity,  which  I  trust  shall  be 
soon." 

They  now  emerged  from  the  myrtle  thicket  into 
the  main  path  that  led  to  the  house  from  the  north 
side  of  the  farm,  and  walked  all  the  distance  with 
out  speaking  a  word,  both  lost  in  thought,  until 
they  reached  the  veranda.  Here  they  paused  and 
Isabel  asked  again: 

"Will  you  not  tell  me  in  a  few  words  why  you  left 
home?  Tell  me  this  and  I  promise  to  be  content 
until  you  have  time  to  tell  me  all  about  it.  Do  tell 
me." 

"On  account  of  my  religious  convictions,"  said 
Leonidas,  "and — and — " 

" — And  what  else?"  asked  Isabel,  insistently. 
"Do  you  fear  to  trust  me?" 

"And — and — you,  Miss  Proctor — and — and 
you,"  said  Leonidas,  with  emotion,  as  he  grasped 
her  hand  more  tightly  and  drew  her  closer  to  his 
side.  "Miss  Proctor,  my  father  is  not  pleased  with 
you." 

"How  have  I  offended  him  ?"  asked  the  perplexed 
Isabel.  "I  have  never  seen  your  father,  and  how 
could  I  displease  him  ?  But  I  promised  to  be  satis 
fied,  and  I  shall  say  no  more  about  it  until  we  have 
a  more  favorable  opportunity  to  talk." 

The  storm  threatened  every  moment  to  break 
upon  them.  The  leaves  of  the  sycamores  which 
stood  about  the  house  had  been  perfectly  still  dur 
ing  the  evening,  but  now  began  to  rustle  as  a  pre- 


28  IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

monition  of  the  coming  gale.  The  lightning  played 
in  irregular,  zigzag  streaks  across  the  clouds,  now 
flashing  so  vividly  near  them  as  to  dazzle  their  vis 
ion;  and  the  thunder,  that  hitherto  had  rumbled  in 
the  distance,  pealed  forth  like  crashing  artillery. 
Already  the  large  drops  of  rain  spattered  in  their 
faces,  warning  them  that  the  storm  was  upon  them. 

"May  I  not  see  you  in  the  morning,  when  all  can 
be  explained?"  asked  Leonidas. 

"I  shall  meet  you,  Mr.  Darwood,"  said  Isabel, 
"but  where?" 

"In  Uncle  Zeke's  cabin,"  responded  Leonidas,  as 
suming  that  the  old  slave  would  be  at  home  and  bid 
him  welcome. 

"You  may  expect  me  at  nine,"  said  Isabel,  as  she 
turned  away  to  enter  the  house. 

The  storm  broke  with  terrific  fury,  and  Leonidas 
faced  a  blinding  blast  of  wind  and  rain  on  his  way 
to  Uncle  Zeke's  cabin. 

The  clock,  which  for  almost  a  century  had  stood 
in  the  hallway  of  the  Arnold  homestead,  struck 
eleven  as  Isabel  closed  the  door  behind  her.  The 
old  house  reeled  upon  its  foundation,  and  the  win 
dows  rattled  as  if  they  would  fly  from  their  cas 
ings.  Never  before  had  Isabel  known  a  storm  like 
this.  Never  had  she  known  the  house  to  even 
tremble  in  the  wind  as  it  did  now.  As  the  gale  in 
creased  in  fury  Isabel  thought  of  Leonidas  and 
wondered  if  by  this  time  he  had  found  Uncle  Zeke, 
and  if  he  were  protected  from  the  storm. 

"If  Uncle  Zeke  is  not  at  home,  what  will  Mr. 
Darwood  do?  I  will  be  certain  about  it,"  said  Isa- 


AN  UNEXPECTED  MEETING  29 

bel,  in  a  low  tone  of  voice.  Wrapping  her  uncle's 
coat  about  her  shoulders,  she  plunged  out  into  the 
storm,  and  was  soon  in  the  path  Leonidas  had 
taken. 

Isabel  made  her  way,  through  the  darkness,  to  a 
place  where  the  line  of  trees  in  front  of  the  house 
terminated  abruptly.  An  occasional  flash  of  light 
ning  enabled  her  to  see  where  she  was.  Turning 
to  the  right,  and  walking  a  hundred  yards  or  more, 
she  saw  distinctly  the  light  shining  through  the 
boards  that  formed  the  shutters  of  the  only  window 
in  Uncle  Zeke's  cabin.  So  delighted  was  she  that 
she  forgot  the  storm  and  forged  her  way  ahead 
until  she  listened  at  the  old  slave's  door  and  was 
satisfied  that  Leonidas  was  within.  She  turned  to 
retrace  her  steps  and  in  a  few  moments  more  came 
again  to  the  great  tree — the  last  of  the  row  that 
formed  a  line  in  front  of  Gabriel  Arnold's  house. 
Just  then,  by  the  aid  of  a  vivid  flash  of  lightning, 
she  saw  to  her  surprise  and  alarm  what  appeared 
to  be  a  man  standing  behind  the  tree,  as  if  to  hide 
and  also  to  protect  himself  from  the  driving  rain. 
Who  it  was  she  did  not  know.  Her  first  thought 
was  of  Leonidas,  and  she  wondered  if,  after  all, 
it  were  he.  But  the  next  flash  of  lightning  revealed 
clearly  a  man  considerably  larger  than  Leonidas, 
with  long  hair  and  whiskers  and  wearing  a  rough 
broad-brim  hat. 

Isabel  had  several  times  before  seen  a  strange 
man  at  Briarcrest  in  close  conversation  with  her 
Uncle  Gabriel.  He  always  came  and  went  at  night, 
in  a  way  to  excite  her  curiosity,  but  she  had  never 


30  IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

dared  to  make  inquiry  concerning  him.  He  was 
rough  in  appearance,  with  shaggy  beard  and  hair, 
and  generally  wore  a  soiled  red  shirt,  with  a  leather 
belt  from  which  hung  a  brace  of  pistols  on  each 
side.  His  trousers  were  crowded  into  heavy  raw 
hide  boots,  and  he  invariably  carried  a  large  whip 
such  as  is  used  in  driving  oxen  in  and  about  Dis 
mal  Swamp. 

The  man  behind  the  tree  in  every  particular  re 
sembled  her  Uncle  Gabriel's  stealthy  visitor.  He 
said  nothing,  but  seemed  to  wish  to  conceal  his 
presence.  Isabel  hastened  homeward,  looking  be 
hind  her  at  every  step.  She  reached  the  veranda 
and  quickly  entered  the  house,  locking  and  bolting 
the  door. 

Throwing  aside  the  storm  coat,  and  satisfying 
herself  that  all  was  quiet  in  the  house,  Isabel  crept 
lightly  to  her  room.  She  retired,  but  did  not  sleep. 
The  events  of  the  night  had  been  so  unusual  and 
exciting,  and  one  experience  had  crowded  so  closely 
upon  another,  that  she  was  wide  awake.  The  storm 
was  now  at  its  height,  but  when  she  became  some 
what  accustomed  to  the  rattling  and  banging  caused 
by  the  wind,  when  the  thunder  had  ceased,  and  it 
was  possible  to  sleep,  the  vision  of  the  man  behind 
the  tree  came  persistently  before  her  with  a  re 
ality  that  alarmed  her.  Then  came  the  thought  of 
Leonidas,  too,  and  she  wondered  what  he  could 
have  meant  when  he  hesitated,  and  his  voice  trem 
bled  as  he  said:  "On  account  of  my  religious  con 
victions,  and — and — you,  Miss  Proctor,  and — and 
— you." 


CHAPTER  IV 
GABRIEL  ARNOLD'S  NOCTURNAL  VISITOR 

AFTER  midnight,  upon  hearing  various  noises, 
some  of  which  could  not  have  been  caused  by  the 
storm,  Isabel  yielded  to  the  impulse  to  move  quietly 
about  the  house  and  ascertain  their  origin.  She 
paused  at  the  hall  door  which  opened  into  her 
uncle's  room,  and  was  surprised  at  hearing  a  conver 
sation  in  a  low  voice.  It  was  impossible  for  her  to 
see  within,  though  the  door  was  slightly  ajar.  She 
found  that  the  rough  man  who  had  stood  behind 
the  tree  when  she  went  to  Uncle  Zeke's  cabin  had 
followed  closely  behind  her  and  had  entered  the 
room  through  the  window,  as  the  outside  door  was 
locked  and  barred.  More  than  ever  was  she  con 
vinced  that  he  was  the  strange  man  whom  she  had 
often  seen  in  close  conversation  with  her  uncle  and 
concerning  whom  she  dared  not  ask  any  questions. 

Isabel  listened,  and  became  intensely  interested, 
for  she  realized  that  the  conversation  concerned 
Leonidas  and  herself.  She  heard  her  uncle  dis 
tinctly  ask: 

"Do  I  understand  you  to  say  a  strange  man  went 
to  Zeke's  cabin?" 

Isabel  waited  breathlessly  for  the  answer,  which 
was:  "Yes,  Gabe,  a  man  went  to  Zeke's  a  short 
time  before  I  came  here.  I  was  standing  behind 
the  big  sycamore  down  at  the  turn  of  the  lane,  out 


32  IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

of  the  rain.  When  the  lightning  flashed  I  saw  him 
leave  your  front  door,  and  make  his  way  down  the 
lane  by  the  trees,  and  saw  him  pound  on  old  Zeke's 
door.  Soon  Zeke  let  him  in  out  of  the  storm.  In 
about  ten  minutes  a  woman  came  the  same  way. 
She  went  by  me,  and  during  a  flash  I  saw  her  put 
her  ear  against  Zeke's  door.  She  then  passed  me 
again,  and  came  back  toward  the  house,  and " 

The  frightened  girl  staggered  against  the  door, 
but  was  sufficiently  composed  to  hear  her  uncle 
ask: 

"Who  in  the  thunder  could  the  woman  be?" 

To  this  question  came  the  emphatic  response: 
"By  my  life,  Gabe,  I  believe  it  was  your  niece,  Isa 
bel." 

"And  who  could  the  man  be?"  asked  Arnold 
with  a  gasp  which  indicated  great  consternation. 

"I  don't  know,  but  I  fell  in  with  Hiram  Hicks 
in  the  edge  of  the  pine  woods,  as  I  was  coming  in, 
and  he  told  of  a  fuss  at  old  man  Darwood's.  He 
says  young  Darwood  has  become  so  contemptible 
of  late  that  his  father  has  driven  him  away  from 
home.  One  of  the  reasons  given  was  that  old  Dar 
wood  feared  the  young  man  was  in  love  with  that 
niece  of  yours.  I  wouldn't  be  much  surprised,  Gabe, 
if  the  fellow  who  went  to  Zeke's  was  young  Dar 
wood  and  the  woman  who  followed  was  your 
niece.  Now,  don't  it  look  that  way?" 

"As  sure  as  you  live  it  does,"  replied  Arnold, 
with  a  sigh,  "and  Zeke  and  that  youngster  are  up 
to  some  devilment,  I'm  afraid." 

Isabel  became  more  and  more  agitated  at  this 


GABRIEL  ARNOLD'S  NOCTURNAL  VISITOR    33 

revelation,  and  her  nerves  were  almost  beyond  con 
trol.  She  could  scarcely  resist  the  inclination  to 
rush  into  her  uncle's  room.  But  her  own  welfare, 
as  well  as  that  of  Leonidas,  was  involved,  so  she 
determined  to  be  quiet  in  order  to  hear  the  conver 
sation  to  the  end.  Standing  in  the  center  of  the 
hallway,  with  her  hand  behind  her,  and  grasping 
tightly  with  the  other  the  ends  of  her  shawl  which 
met  at  her  waist,  she  listened  tensely  to  what  fol 
lowed  : 

"I  don't  like  it  a  bit,  to  have  that  fellow  prowling 
about.  He  is  certainly  here  for  no  good.  Besides, 
he  might  have  seen  you,  too,  and  will  let  the  cat 
out  of  the  bag.  What  do  you  say  about  keeping 
an  eye  on  the  lad?" 

"It  would  be  all  up  with  me  if  the  police  sus 
pected  that  I  came  to  Briarcrest.  They  think  now 
that  I  went  to  Texas  when  I  broke  jail,  and  if  they 
ever  get  an  inkling  of  my  whereabouts  they'll  be 
on  the  lookout  for  me.  I'm  afraid  of  the  scamp, 
since  you  come  to  speak  of  the  danger.  I  think 
we'd  better  take  him  in  hand.  But  why  are  you 
so  much  afraid  of  him,  Gabe?" 

"If  he's  gone  to  Zeke's,  I'm  afraid  he  may  get 
the  negro's  confidence,  and  in  an  unguarded  mo 
ment  the  old  fool  may  tell  some  of  my  business 
affairs.  His  going  to  Zeke's  cabin,  I  fear,  is  a  bad 
sign  for  me.  I  wish  he  were  a  thousand  miles  away. 
What  can  be  done  to  silence  him?  For  he's  sure 
to  have  something  to  tell  since  he  has  seen  you  and 
has  talked  with  Zeke.  You  may  think  me  suspi 
cious,  but  we  had  better  look  out  for  him." 


34  IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

"I  don't  think  anyone  could  recognize  me  now, 
especially  at  night,  when  the  only  light  is  from  a 
flash  of  lightning,  but  still  I  am  not  willing  to  take 
any  chances.  Something  will  have  to  be  done  with 
the  lad.  What  will  it  be?" 

"I  don't  know  the  most  practical  thing.  What 
do  you  think  about  it  ?" 

"Think  about  it?  I'll  think  about  it  when  the 
time  comes.  By  the  way,  Gabe,  why  do  you  keep 
old  Zeke  about  you,  anyway?  He  is  old  and  no 
good.  You've  sold  all  the  other  blacks  that  have 
not  gone  to  the  swamp.  Why  don't  you  let  him  go, 
too?  I  don't  see  that  you  have  any  use  for  such 
an  old  nuisance.  I'm  sure  it  ain't  because  you've 
too  much  conscience  to  sell  the  old  man.  Your  con 
science  is  like  mine,  if  you  ever  had  one.  It  is 
done  up  and  laid  away,  never  to  worry  you  again; 
ain't  that  so,  old  pard?  Come,  what's  the  matter 
with  you?  I  tell  you,  old  fellow,  you  are  getting 
white  as  a  ghost.  What  are  you  looking  at  that 
door  for?  Do  you  hear  anything?  Come,  now, 
nobody  is  there.  Tell  me  why  you  keep  Zeke." 

"Well,— I— I—,  well— I— I—" 

"What's  the  matter  with  you?  Why  should  a 
little  chat  about  an  old  nigger  shut  off  your  talk 
like  this  ?  If  he  was  mine,  and  I  was  in  your  place, 
I'd  take  him  into  the  pine  woods  down  by  the  syca 
mores,  and  I'd  knock  him  in  the  head  with  that 
hickory  club  there  in  the  corner;  then  I'd  sink  his 
old  black  carcass  to  the  bottom  of  the  branch.  That 
would  be  the  last  of  old  Zeke,  and  I'd  be  happy 
over  what  I'd  done.  Or  if  you  have  too  much  con- 


GABRIEL  ARNOLD'S  NOCTURNAL  VISITOR    35 
i 

science  for  that,  why  don't  you  pay  somebody  to 
take  him  off  your  hands  ?  Then  he  couldn't  tell  any 
of  your  affairs.  I'd  settle  with  him — I  would.  I'd 
get  rid  of  him  somehow." 

"I've  often  wished  I  could — but  I  can't  now." 

"Blame  it,  take  him  to  the  pine  woods  and  send 
him  over." 

"No,  no;  not  in  the  pine  woods." 

"Why,  that's  a  fine  place  for  such  a  job." 

"No,  not  in  the  pine  woods.  I  can't.  I've  often 
thought  of  it,  I  say,  but  I  can't,  now." 

"How  long  since?" 

"Since  the  day — the  day  of  the  eclipse — the  day 
that  was  so  dark — dark  in  more  ways  than  one." 

"Gabe,  old  fellow,  there's  something  crooked  be 
tween  you  and  that  blame  nigger.  You  needn't 
tell  me  what  it  is,  but  I  know  by  the  way  you  stam 
mer  and  stutter,  and  by  your  scary  look,  there's 
something  the  matter.  Don't  tell  me,  but  I  know 
that  old  rascal's  got  something  to  tell  the  young 
man,  and  it  scares  you  to  think  about  it.  Gabe, 
quit  talking  about  Zeke.  What  do  you  want  done 
about  the  young  man?" 

"I  don't  know  just  what,  but  somehow  I  want 
him  out  of  my  way  at  'most  any  cost.  I  confess  I'm 
afraid  of  him  since  you  said  he  went  to  Zeke's 
cabin." 

"By  Jove,  Gabe,  did  you  hear  that?  It's  four 
o'clock.  I  must  be  out  of  this." 

Isabel  heard  the  man  leap  quickly  to  the  back 
window  of  Gabriel  Arnold's  room  and  slip  out, 
into  the  darkness.  Her  Uncle  Gabriel  dropped 


36  IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

upon  his  bed,  greatly  troubled  with  the  possibilities 
suggested  by  the  recent  disclosures. 

Meanwhile,  Isabel's  mind  was  in  a  state  of 
strange  agitation.  She  wondered  what  it  all  meant. 
It  appeared  that  Uncle  Zeke  exerted  a  mysterious 
influence  over  her  Uncle  Gabriel,  but  the  nature  of 
that  power  she  did  not  know.  It  had  been  of  short 
duration — only  since  the  day  of  the  eclipse.  What 
could  have  happened  that  day  to  change  the  whole 
current  of  her  Uncle  Gabriel's  life,  and  give  this 
slave  such  a  hold  on  him?  Why  was  he  so  afraid 
of  Uncle  Zeke?  Then,  too,  there  was  an  evident 
conspiracy  between  this  strange  man  and  her  uncle. 
Leonidas  had  suddenly  crossed  their  path  and  they 
immediately  wished  him  evil.  Was  it  true,  as  the 
strange  man  had  intimated,  that  Uncle  Zeke  had 
something  to  tell  Leonidas,  which  made  it  neces 
sary  for  her  Uncle  Gabriel  to  hate  him,  and  to  wish 
to  dispose  of  him  at  "  'most  any  cost?" 

These  questions  crowded  upon  her  excited  brain 
until  she  became  nearly  frantic.  She  felt  sure  that 
her  uncle  would,  with  this  mysterious  man,  plot 
against  Leonidas ;  and  that  back  of  it  all  there  was 
a  motive  which  she  must  at  least  attempt  to  fathom. 

As  Isabel  turned  quickly,  but  silently,  to  go  to 
her  room,  she  was  startled  to  hear  her  uncle  leap 
from  his  bed  and  pace  back  and  forth  across  the 
floor,  muttering: 

"The  infernal  wretch !  If  that  young  scamp  gets 
my  secret  from  Zeke,  Tidewater  Virginia  will  not 
hold  both  of  us;  that's  sure.  He'll  go  the  way  of 
the  Count." 


CHAPTER  V 
UNCLE  ZEKE  TELLS  OF  THE  DARK  DAY 

"WHO'S  dat  knockin'  at  dat  doe?"  shouted  Uncle 
Zeke,  in  great  surprise  and  alarm.  "I'd  lak  ter 
know  who's  dat  cumin'  ter  'sturb  ol'  Zeke  dis  time 
o'night.  I'd  lak  ter  know  who  'tis  an'  what  da 
wants,  anyway." 

"Uncle  Zeke,  it  is  Leonidas  Darwood.  Can't 
you  let  me  in  to  stay  till  morning?"  asked  Leonidas, 
in  a  bold,  distinct  voice,  in  order  to  be  heard  above 
the  noise  of  the  storm. 

"La  sakes,  Mars  Lonny,  what  yer  doin'  out  hyar 
dis  time  o'night?"  asked  Zeke,  as  he  flung  the  door 
wide  open,  even  though  the  rain  was  driving  to 
ward  it. 

Leonidas,  being  now  assured  of  the  old  slave's 
hospitality,  pushed  in  quickly  from  the  blinding 
tempest.  Though  the  storm  had  been  raging  but 
a  short  time,  he  was  thoroughly  wet,  and  even  his 
belongings  in  the  satchel  were  soaked  wlith  thie 
rain. 

"Mars  Lonny,  set  down  dar  on  dat  crickit,  jam 
by  dat  fire  an'  dry  yersef ;  an'  den  tell  Zeke  'bout 
why  yers  out  dis  bad  night.  I  wants  ter  hyar, 
chile,  an'  yer  mus'  tell  ol'  Zeke,"  said  the  negro, 
persuasively,  as  he  showed  Leonidas  a  rough,  im 
provised  seat  which  was  placed  near  a  small  light- 


443319 


38  IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

wood   fire  in  the  great    fireplace,  used  for    light 
rather  than  heat. 

The  old  slave,  Ezekiel,  sat  upon  a  short  pine 
log,  while  Leonidas,  as  invited,  sat  upon  the 
cricket. 

"Mars  Lonny,  I  wants  ter  know  jes  why  yers  out 
dis  kin'  o'night?"  persisted  Uncle  Zeke.  "Don't 
yer  hyar  dat  wind  er  blowin'  ?  I  feels  sorry  for  yer 
ef  yer  had  ter  cum  out  hyar.  Tell  me,  Mars  Lon 
ny  ;  I  wants  ter  know. 

"Uncle  Zeke,"  said  Leonidas,  as  his  lips  trembled 
with  emotion,  "my  father  has  sent  me  away  from 
home." 

"Yer  don't  mean  dat,  Mars  Lonny,  duz  yer?" 
asked  Zeke,  feelingly.  "Mars  Darwood's  allers  bin 
kin'  ter  yer,  hain't  he,  Mars  Lonny?" 

"Yes,  father  has  always  been  kind  before,  and 
he  is  simply  mistaken  now,"  answered  Leonidas, 
sadly. 

"It's  sprizin'  ter  me,  Mars  Lonny,  sprizin'  dat 
Mars  Darwood  driv'  yer  'way  frum  home  dout  no- 
whars  ter  go  'ceps  Zeke's  cabin.  Has  yer  bin  doin' 
sumthin'  bad,  Mars  Lonny?"  ventured  Zeke,  with 
a  note  of  apology  in  his  voice. 

"I  don't  think  so,  Uncle  Zeke,  but  my  father  and 
I  differ  as  to  what  is  right  and  what  is  wrong.  He 
thinks  that  I  am  wrong,  and  I  say  that  I  am  right. 
We  seem  to  be  so  far  apart  in  our  ideas  that  we 
can't  remain  under  the  same  roof." 

"So  yers  bin  spattin'  'bout  sumthin'  wid  Mars 
Darwood,  an'  he's  dun  sent  yer  'way  frum  home. 
Is  dat  it?" 


UNCLE  ZEKE  TELLS  OF  THE  DARK  DAY      39 

"No,  Uncle  Zeke,  there  was  no  quarrel.  I  simply 
could  not  agree  with  my  father,  but  I  tried  to  leave 
home  with  the  best  of  feeling,  and  while  I  have 
a  sad  heart  for  some  reasons,  I,  nevertheless,  am 
happy.  You  seem  not  to  understand  how  this  can 
be." 

"Happy,  Mars  Lonny,  an'  no  whars  ter  go  'ceps 
ol'  Zeke's  shanty?1  La,  chile,  I  don't  see  how  'tis 
dat  yer  kin  be  happy." 

"Well,  Uncle  Zeke,"  answered  Leonidas,  "your 
cabin  doesn't  leak,  even  though  the  storm  is  so 
fierce;  besides,  I'm  sure  I'm  welcome,  and  that's 
a  great  deal.  I  can't  stay  long,  I  know,  as  Mr.  Ar 
nold  might  be  displeased  should  he  know  I  am  here. 
So  I'll  get  away  as  soon  as  I  may." 

"Yers  welcum  hyar,  Mars  Lonny,  yes,  yers  wel- 
cum,  an'  yer  kin  stay  jes  as  long  as  Mars  Gabel 
Arnold  don't  know  it.  Mars  Gabel  am  er  mighty 
bad  man.  Yer  don't  know  how  bad  Mars  Gabel 
am ;  an'  ef  he  knowd  yer  wus  hyar,  he'd  be  mighty 
mad  an'  s'picious,  too.  He's  bin  s'picious  of  folks 
lately,  I  tells  yer,  an'  don't  want  nobody  'bout  hyar. 
When  anybody  cums  on  de  farm,  Mars  Gabel  wants 
ter  know  dar  bisness  right  soon,  I  jes  tells  yer." 

"Doesn't  he  have  anybody  come  to  see  him?" 
queried  Leonidas,  hoping  to  induce  the  negro  to 
talk  further  of  Arnold's  life. 

"I  knows  of  but  one  man  dat  cums  hyar  now, 
Mars  Lonny,  an'  he  cums  hyar  nights,  an'  goes 

'The  term  "shanty,"  though  of  Irish  origin,  is  used  interchangeably  with 
"cabin"  by  the  negroes  of  the  Dismal  Swamp  region  of  Virginia.  This  is 
probably  to  be  accounted  for  by  the  fact  that  the  Irish  people  were  the 
first  to  find  their  way  into  the  habitable  places  of  the  Great  Swamp.  They 
have  left  behind  characteristic  names  for  several  localities,  such  as  "Shilla- 
lah,"  "Ballahack,"  et  cetera. 


4O  IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

'way  'foe  mornin.'  Dat  looks  funny,  now  don't  it, 
Mars  Lonny,  fur  dat  man  ter  cum  hyar,  an'  go  'way 
'foe  daylight?  He  don't  think  Zeke  eber  sees  him, 
nuther  duz  Mars  Gabriel;  but  I  has  seed  him,  an'  I 
tells  yer,  I's  scyard  er  him." 

"Why  are  you  afraid  of  him,  Uncle  Zeke?" 
"Kaise  I  don't  know  why  he  cums  hyar  nights," 
replied  the  old  slave,  and  in  his  manner  it  was 
plain  to  see  that  he  had  a  suspicion  that  the  strange 
man,  whoever  he  might  be,  meant  no  good  in  his 
visits  to  Briarcrest. 

On  his  way  to  Uncle  Zeke's  cabin,  in  a  flash  of 
lightning,  Leonidas  had  seen  a  man  dodge  quickly 
behind  a  tree.  He  could  not  describe  him.  He  had 
merely  seen  the  man,  but  he  felt  certain  that  the 
nocturnal  visitor  whp  had  excited  Uncle  Zeke's 
suspicion  and  fear  was  no  other  than  the  man  be 
hind  the  tree.  It  would  be  unwise,  he  felt,  to  let 
Uncle  Zeke  know  that  he  had  seen  a  strange  man, 
and  probably  the  one  to  whom  he  referred.  He  was 
far  more  concerned  to  know  something  about  Ga 
briel  Arnold  than  the  mysterious  stranger,  no  mat 
ter  how  significant  and  suspicious  this  man's  pres 
ence  at  Briarcrest  might  be.  If  Arnold  objected  to 
everyone  except  the  stranger  approaching  him,  this 
aloofness  would  certainly  stand  as  a  serious  obstacle 
in  the  way  of  his  own  wish  to  enjoy  the  society  of 
Isabel.  Leonidas  had  no  fear  that  it  was  the  pleas 
ure  of  Isabel's  society  which  induced  the  midnight 
visits  of  the  stranger,  but  he  feared  that  Arnold 
might,  upon  the  slightest  provocation,  or  no  provo 
cation,  look  upon  himself  as  an  enemy. 


UNCLE  ZEKE  TELLS  OF  THE  DARK  DAY      41 

From  Isabel's  anxiety  while  at  the  myrtle  thick 
et,  Leonidas  knew  there  was  a  grave  reason,  at  least 
to  her  mind,  why  he  should  not  desire  to  come  into 
contact  with  her  uncle.  What  that  reason  was  he 
did  not  know,  but  thought  he  might  learn  some 
thing  from  Uncle  Zeke  upon  which  to  base  a  con 
jecture.  Drawing  his  cricket  nearer,  laying  his 
hand  carelessly  upon  the  old  man's  knee,  and  look 
ing  into  his  eyes,  Leonidas  attempted  to  lead  Zeke's 
speech  toward  the  relation  of  what  he  desired  to 
know. 

"Uncle  Zeke,  you  said  a  moment  ago  that  Mr. 
Arnold  was  a  bad  man.  In  what  respect  is  he  bad  ? 
You  know  a  man  may  be  very  bad  in  some  particu 
lars,  and  fairly  good  in  others.  For  example,  he 
may  be  unkind  to  those  about  him,  but  at  the  same 
time  be  perfectly  correct  in  his  moral  character  and 
in  the  business  world  be  counted  honest,  while,  on 
the  other  hand,  a  man  may  be  absolutely  kind,  un 
usually  so,  and  he  may  be  dishonest  in  his  dealings. 
Bad  temper  and  an  evil  disposition  may  be  the  re 
sult  of  bodily  disorder,  while  dishonesty  comes 
from  a  wicked  moral  nature.  When  a  man  is  dis 
honest  it  is  because  he  is  bad  at  heart,  but  a  man 
with  simply  an  evil  disposition  sometimes  deserves 
our  sympathy.  In  what  way  is  Mr.  Arnold  bad  ?  Is 
he  simply  unkind  to  his  slaves?  It  may  be  that 
some  of  them  deserve  all  they  get." 

"Mars  Gabel  hain't  got  no  slaves  now,  'ceps  me 
an'  Dinah,"  said  Zeke,  beginning  to  show  unusual 
interest  in  the  conversation.  His  countenance 
changed,  and  his  eyes  snapped. 


42  IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

"What  has  become  of  his  slaves?"  pursued  Le- 
onidas.  "He  had  a  great  many  at  one  time,  I'm 
told." 

"Mars  Gabel  Arnold  got  so  mean  an'  poe,  dat  da 
couldn't  stay  hyar,"  said  Zeke,  with  much  earnest 
ness. 

"Well,  where " 

"But,  hoi'  on,  Mars  Lonny,  an'  I's  gwine  fur  ter 
tell  yer  'bout  it.  Mars  Gabel  got  so  poe  frum  gam- 
lin'  on  his  game  chickins,  dat  he  had  ter  sell  a  nig 
ger  now  an'  den  ter  git  some  moe  money.  His  chick- 
ins  nebber  wus  so  good  as  Mars  John  Gudbed's  an' 
Mars  Wash  Buttin's.  Da  uster  beat  him  bad,  an' 
got  er  power  o'  money  out'n  Mars  Gabel,  I  tells 
yer.  Den  he  lose  er  power  o'  money  bettin'  on  ol' 
Club  Foot  in  de  races.  Mars  Gabel  uster  bet  an' 
brag  on  ol'  Club  Foot,  but  he  nebber  wus  so  fas'  as 
Mars  John  Gudbed's  leetle  Sail.  'Twixt  de  chickin' 
fightin'  an'  de  hoss  racin',  Mars  Gabel's  got  mighty 
mean  an'  poe,  I  tells  yer.  So,  Mars  Lonny,  he  dun 
sol'  de  blacks  ter  de  traders  ter  be  tuck  'way  down 
ter  Alabam.  Den  he  got  so  mean  an'  bad,  an'  beat 
de  udder  blacks  so  hard,  dat  dem  dat  wusn't  sol' 
lef  Mars  Gabel  an'  tuck  ter  de  swamp — deed  da 
did.  De  las'  dat  run  away  wus  Pompey.  He  sot 
de  dogs  on  poe  ol'  Pompey,  an'  da  obertuck  'im  an' 
kill  'im  in  de  swamp.  Ef  he  could  er  run  er  leetle 
furder,  an'  got  ter  Mars  Crane's  on  Culpepper 
Islan',  den  de  dogs  couldn't  cotch  'im.  Mars  Crane 
takes  cyar  ob  de  black  folks,  he  duz.  Mars  Lonny, 
de  islan'  am  de  boss  place  fur  de  runaways.  Now, 
Mars  Lonny,  'twix  dem  da  tuck  ter  Alabam,  an' 


UNCLE  ZEKE  TELLS  OF  THE  DARK  DAY     43 

dem  dat  tuck  ter  de  swamp,  da've  all  gone  'ceps 
me  an'  Dinah.  An'  Mars  Gabel  hain't  gwine  ter 
sell  me  an'  Dinah.  Yes,  Mars  Lonny,  Mars  Gabel 
dun  sol'  de  blacks  ter  git  money.  Dat  wus  bad, 
now  wusn't  it?  But  Mars  Gabel  dun  worse'n  dat 
jes  ter  git  er  leetle  money."  This  last  was  uttered 
by  Zeke  with  a  significant  look  and  tone. 

Leonidas  seemed  not  to  grasp  the  statement  of 
the  old  man,  so  interested  was  he  in  the  disappear 
ance  of  the  slaves  and  the  manner  of  their  going. 
Presently  he  spoke  again: 

"Then  he  is  not  so  unkind  to  you  and  Aunt  Di 
nah  as  he  was  to  the  other  slaves,  is  he?" 

"No  surree!"  replied  Uncle  Zeke,  with  much 
earnestness.  "No  surree,  dat  he  hain't.  Mars  Ga- 
bel's  er  mighty  bad  man,  but  he  hain't  bad  ter  me  an' 
Dinah  no  moe.  He  uster  be,  but  he  hain't  now." 

"There  must  be  something  good  in  Mr.  Arnold 
after  all,  Uncle  Zeke,  or  he  would  not  be  good  to 
you  and  Aunt  Dinah.  If  he  were  all  bad  he  would 
have  treated  you  just  as  he  treated  all  the  other 
slaves,  and  by  this  time  you  would  have  gone  to  the 
swamp.  A  person  may  be  more  bad  than  good,  but 
there  is  something  good  in  the  worst  man,  and  once 
in  a  while  the  good  will  show  itself." 

"Mars  Lonny,"  said  Zeke,  shaking  his  head,  "ef 
yer  thinks  ebrybody's  good,  yers  gwine  ter  be 
mighty  fooled.  Dars  lots  ob  bad  folks  in  dis  world, 
an'  da'se  got  no  good  in  um,  nuther.  Mars  Gabel's 
one  ob  dat  kin',  an'  I  knows  it.  When  yer  knows 
'im  lak  ol'  Zeke,  yer'll  say  right  lak  me,  dat  he's 
er  mighty  bad  man.  I  knows  Mars  Gabel,  I  dus." 


44  IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

"But,  Uncle  Zeke,  the  fact  that  he  is  kind  to  you 
and  Aunt  Dinah  shows  good  impulses." 

"La  sakes,  Mars  Lonny,  yer  don't  know  Mars 
Gabel  Arnold,"  said  Zeke,  with  animation  in  his 
voice,  and  with  flashing  eyes.  "He's  good  ter  me 
an'  my  ol'  ooman,  kaise  he  can't  hep  hissef.  Zeke 
knows  too  much  fur  Mars  Gabel.  I  knows  right 
smart  what  he  don't  want  me  fur  ter  know,  but  I 
knows  it,  all  de  same,  an' " 

Here  the  old  man  paused,  as  if  he  felt  that  he 
had  said  more  than  he  intended.  Recovering  him 
self,  after  a  moment  of  embarrassing  silence,  he 
said,  "Yes  surree,  Mars  Lonny,  Mars  Gabel  uster 
'buse  me  an'  Dinah,  but  he  don't  do  dat  now." 

"How  long  since  he  has  changed  toward  you  and 
Aunt  Dinah,  and  why  has  he  changed  ?"  asked  Le- 
onidas.  Seeing  that  Uncle  Zeke  became  agitated 
by  his  question  he  continued :  "Uncle  Zeke,  you 
also  said  that  Mr.  Arnold  kept  to  himself  more 
closely  of  late  than  he  formerly  did.  How  do  you 
account  for  this  change?  If  he  has  no  company 
but  the  strange  man  who  comes  at  night  only,  there 
must  be  a  reason  for  it.  Do  you  know  what  it  is  ?" 

The  old  man  became  more  and  more  excited,  but 
hesitated  to  speak.  Leonidas  realized  that  he  was 
probing  too  deeply  into  a  tender  spot.  The  old 
slave  arose  and  hobbled  back  and  forth  across  the 
floor  several  times,  then  quickening  his  steps,  he 
hurried  to  where  Leonidas  was  sitting,  before  he 
spoke. 

"Mars  Lonny,  Zeke  knows  all  'bout  dat.  I  knows 
jes  why  Mars  Gabel  hain't  mean  ter  me  an'  Di- 


UNCLE  ZEKE  TELLS  OF  THE  DARK  DAY      45 

nah;  an'  I  knows  jes  why  he  don't  want  folks  ter 
cum  ter  see  him,  an'  why  he's  so  s'picious.  But  I 
don't  know  why  dat  strange  man  cums  hyar  nights. 
No,  I  don't  know  dat." 

"Never  mind  the  strange  man,"  said  Leonidas. 
"Tell  me  about  this  change  in  Mr.  Arnold,  and  why 
it  is  so,  and  how  long  he  has  been  so  different." 

"It's  bin  sence  de  'Dark  Day.'  Now,  don't  ax 
me  no  moe,"  implored  Zeke,  showing  greater  nerv 
ousness  than  he  had  at  any  time  before. 

"What  was  the  'Dark  Day,'  Uncle  Zeke?"  per 
sisted  Leonidas.  "Do  you  mean  the  day  of  the 
eclipse?" 

"I  don't  know  'bout  de  'clipse — what  dat  is,"  said 
Zeke,  impressively,  "but  I  knows  dar  wus  er  mighty 
dark  day,  when  de  chickins  went  ter  roost  in  de 
broad  daytime.  Yes  surree,  da  went  ter  roost  in 
de  daytime,  an'  de  niggers  got  mighty  pious  an' 
scyard,  an'  wanted  ter  git  'ligion  mighty  bad.  Sence 
dat  day,  Mars  Lonny,  Mars  Gabel  hain't  beat  me 
an'  Dinah.  Sence  dat  day,  he's  bin  s'picious  ob  de 
folks  dat  cum  hyar,  an'  now  he  don't  hab  nobody 
'ceps  dat  strange  man  what  I's  bin  tellin'  yer  'bout, 
what  allers  cums  hyar  nights  a  lookin'  round." 

At  this  statement,  Uncle  Zeke's  voice  trembled 
with  emotion,  and  his  large  frame  shook  from  head 
to  foot.  He  acted  as  though  some  terrible  recollec 
tion  was  forcing  itself  upon  his  memory,  in  spite 
of  his  wish.  He  threw  his  hands  up  to  his  head, 
and  dropped  his  covered  face  on  young  Darwood's 
knees.  Between  his  sobs  he  cried,  "Dat — 'Dark — 
Day',— oh,--dat  'Dark-Day!'"  Then,  as  if  his 


46  IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

heart  would  break,  he  blurted  out,  "De — pine — 
woods,  de — pine — woods !" 

After  a  moment  he  arose  quickly,  took  a  large 
hickory  cane  standing  in  the  corner  near  the  fire 
place,  and  with  it  staggered  across  the  cabin  floor. 
He  opened  the  door  as  if  to  go  out  into  the  storm 
which  was  still  raging,  but  Leonidas  hurried  to  him 
and  putting  his  arms  around  him,  drew  him  back 
to  the  pine  log  seat. 

Uncle  Zeke  sat  for  a  time  silently  staring  into  the 
fire  without  seeing  it.  He  was  like  a  man  in  a 
stupor.  At  that  moment  he  could  think  of  nothing 
but  the  "Dark  Day"  and  the  tragedy  then  enacted, 
which,  ever  since,  had  burdened  his  life. 

Leonidas  put  his  hand  on  the  old  man's  shoulder 
to  attract  his  attention,  and  began :  "Uncle  Zeke, 
what—" 

Before  another  word  could  be  spoken,  the  old 
man  recovered  sufficiently  to  say  protestingly :  "No, 
Mars  Lonny,  don't  ax  me  dat;  but  Mars  Gabel 
Arnold*s  er  mighty  bad  man.  Mars  Gabel  Ar 
nold's  er  mighty  bad  man." 


CHAPTER  VI 
ZEKE  MAKES  A  DISCOVERY 

IT  was  now  early  morning,  and  the  storm  had  al 
most  spent  itself.  While  it  had  been  raging  in  all 
its  fury,  whistling  through  the  crevices  of  the  old 
cabin,  and  moaning  in  the  tree  tops,  with  now  and 
then  a  great  sycamore,  falling  heavily  before  the 
rush  of  some  tremendous  blast,  the  conversation  had 
continued,  except  when  an  extraordinary  gust  of 
wind  threatened  the  safety  of  the  cabin.  In  the  lull 
which  followed  Leonidas  and  Uncle  Zeke  ceased 
speaking — neither  could  have  told  why.  They 
gazed  at  each  other  until  the  silence  became  op 
pressive.  The  storm  had  blown  so  long  and  furi 
ously  that  they  became  accustomed  to  its  sound. 
When  quiet  was  restored  it  seemed  unusual.  They 
looked  at  each  other  with  surprise. 

There  was  a  reason  for  their  silence.  It  came 
with  the  quiet  that  followed  the  abatement  of  the 
storm.  It  was  like  the  waking  of  the  miller.  While 
the  mill  runs  naturally,  and  thunders  with  the  noise 
of  a  cataract,  the  miller  sleeps  peacefully,  but  if  the 
wheels  slip  a  cog  and  there  is  any  jostle  in  the  ma 
chinery  he  is  aroused  from  his  slumber.  Or  if  the 
great  wheel  ceases  its  revolutions,  and  the  clatter 
of  the  mill  gives  place  to  silence,  the  miller  is 
aroused.  It  is  the  silence  now  that  awakens  him. 


48  IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

It  was  the  sound  before.  In  either  case,  it  was  sim 
ply  the  unusual  that  disturbed  his  sleep. 

Presently  Leonidas  asked,  "Uncle  Zeke,  is  Mr. 
Arnold  kind  to  Miss  Isabel  ?" 

"No,  Mars  Lonny,  dat  he  hain't.  Dat  man  hain't 
kin'  ter  nobody  'ceps  me  an'  Dinah." 

"Is  he  unkind  to  her?"  asked  Leonidas,  with 
strong  feeling  in  his  voice. 

"Yes  sur,  Mars  Lonny,  dat  man's  mean  ter  her. 
But  what  yer  know  'bout  Missis  Bel?"  asked  Zeke, 
glancing  searchingly  at  his  questioner. 

"I  have  seen  her  several  times,"  admitted  Le 
onidas,  "and  I  was  greatly  pleased  with  her;  but 
she  always  looked  sad  to  me,  and  I  have  often  won 
dered  if  Mr.  Arnold  and  his  sister,  Betty,  were  as 
kind  to  her  as  they  might  be." 

"No,  da  hain't,"  responded  the  old  man,  warmly. 
"Tuther  day,  Mars  Gabel  tuck  Missis  Bel  out'n  ter 
de  beech  tree  stump,  an'  don't  yer  know  he  wus 
gwine  ter  flog  her  right  lak  he  uster  de  leetle  blacks  ? 
I  wus  stanin'  wid  my  back  'gin  de  big  sicamoe,  an'  I 
couldn't  stan'  an'  see  dat  gal  treated  dat  way. 
Missis  Bel's  too  good  fur  dat,  fur  she  hadn't  dun 
nuffin.'  So  I  jes  walks  ter  Mars  Gabel,  an'  puts 
my  han'  on  'im,  and  sed,  'Mars  Gabel,  don't  yer  hit 
her  wid  dat  whip,  kaise  she  don't  'zarb  it/  An'  I 
tells  yer,  Mars  Lonny,  he  didn't  hit  her  den,  an'  he 
hain't  hit  her  nebber  sence  when  ol'  Zeke  wus 
'round.  He  hain't  furgot  de  'Dark  Day.'  " 

The  recollection  of  the  "Dark  Day"  caused  the 
old  man  to  stagger  and  fall  back  upon  the  pine 
stump. 


ZEKE  MAKES  A  DISCOVERY  49 

"I  have  an  interest  in  Miss  Isabel,  and  it  is  partly 
on  her  account  that  I  am  away  from  home  now," 
said  Leonidas,  as  soon  as  Uncle  Zeke  had  recovered 
his  composure. 

"What  yer  means  by  dat?"  asked  Uncle  Zeke, 
eagerly.  "What  Missis  Bel  dun?" 

"I  want  to  tell  you  a  story,"  said  Leonidas.  "I 
am  sure  you  will  be  interested." 

"Yes,  indeedy,  Mars  Lonny,  I  wants  ter  hyar 
'bout  why  yers  away  f  rum  home,  an'  why  yers  in  ol' 
Zeke's  shanty.  Go  on,  Mars  Lonny.  I's  dyin'  ter 
hyar." 

"My  father  ordered  me  out  of  his  house  early 
yesterday  evening,  because  of  two  things.  One  con 
cerns  my  religious  convictions,  and  the  other  con 
cerns  Isabel  Proctor.  My  father  does  not  believe 
in  a  God,  or  in  the  Bible;  and  I  do.  It  made  him 
violently  angry  when  I  told  him  that  I  had  deter 
mined  to  live  a  Christian  life.  The  particular  point 
of  disagreement  between  us  has  to  do  with  the 
proper  treatment  of  the  different  classes  of  society, 
and—" 

"What  yer  means  by  dat,  Mars  Lonny?"  inter 
rupted  Zeke. 

"I  mean  simply  this,"  replied  the  young  man, 
"my  father,  because  of  his  fortune  and  the  high 
position  of  the  Darwood  family,  thinks  it  right  to 
make  a  great  distinction  between  the  rich  and  the 
poor.  He  thinks  money  and  position  in  the  world 
make  some  people  better  than  others  who  have 
neither  of  these.  Christ  denied  this  distinction,  and 
made  all  such  questions  a  matter  of  religion.  I  have 


50  IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

come  to  believe  that  a  man  cannot  be  a  Christian 
and  live  up  to  the  requirements  of  the  Sermon  on 
the  Mount  if  he  holds  such  opinions.  Christ  pro 
nounced  blessings  upon  the  poor  in  spirit,  the 
mourners  and  those  persecuted  for  righteousness' 
sake,  and  never  said  once  that  a  man  is  any  better 
because  he  is  rich.  Jesus  never  made  any  distinc 
tion  on  account  of  a  man's  riches,  but  always  went 
to  those  who  needed  Him  most.  My  father  says 
I'm  crazy,  but  the  matter  seems  so  important  to  me 
that  I  have  resolved  to  live  according  to  the  teach 
ing  of  Jesus  as  found  in  the  Bible.  My  father  ob 
jects  very  seriously  to  this." 

"Why  dus  Mars  Darwood  'ject  ter  dat?"  asked 
Uncle  Zeke. 

"He  knows  it  will  lead  me  to  associate  with  poor 
people,  and  he  does  not  consider  them  worthy  of  a 
Darwood's  attention.  He  is  fond  of  speaking 
slightingly  of  the  'poor  white  trash  and  negroes.'  I 
have  told  him  I  consider  this  cruel.  He  claims  to 
see  a  difference  in  my  life  since  I  became  a  convert 
to  this  doctrine,  and  becomes  furious  when  it  is 
mentioned.  He  declared  that  I  should  change  my 
opinions  or  leave  home,  and  I  have  left  home,  Uncle 
Zeke." 

When  Leonidas  concluded  this  part  of  his  story, 
he  was  curious  to  know  its  effect  upon  Uncle  Zeke's 
mind,  for  he  believed  the  old  man  would  enter  large 
ly  into  the  immediate  events  of  his  life,  somehow  or 
other,  either  for  weal  or  woe,  and  form  an  impor 
tant  factor  in  the  shaping  of  his  destiny. 

"Mars  Lonny,  yers  dun  egzackly  right.    De  good 


ZEKE  MAKES  A  DISCOVERY  51 

Book  sez  sumthin'  'bout  us  worshipin'  de  Lord 
under  er  vine  an'  fig  tree  widout  folks  darin'  ter  'lest 
us.  When  yer  couldn't  sarb  de  Lord  at  home,  fur 
de  cussedness  ob  yer  ol'  dad,  yer  did  egzackly  right 
ter  lebe  'im.  But  it'll  be  mighty  bad  fur  ol'  Mars 
Darwood  when  de  good  Lord  gits  hold'n  him,"  said 
Zeke,  not  without  a  touch  of  satisfaction  at  the  pros 
pect. 

"I'm  glad  you  approve  my  decision,  Uncle  Zeke," 
said  Leonidas,  feeling  that  in  the  old  negro  he  had 
a  friend  who  could  now  be  taken  into  his  confidence 
and  trusted  implicitly  with  everything  that  con 
cerned  him  or  his  future. 

"Mars  Lonny,"  remarked  Uncle  Zeke,  with  delib 
eration,  "yer  tol'  me  'bout  yer  ligus  'victions,  but 
yer  hain't  tol'  me  what  yer  dad's  got  'gin  Missis 
Bel.  What  dat  gal  hab  ter  do  wid  yer  an'  Mars 
Darwood  ?  Dat's  what  I'd  lak  ter  know." 

"She  had  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  that.  She's 
as  innocent  as  an  angel,  but  my  father  imagines 
that  there  is  an  intimacy  between  us  that  might 
prove  serious  after  a  while." 

"What  yer  means  by  dat,  Mars  Lonny?"  asked 
Zeke. 

"My  father  has  seen  me  a  few  times  with  Miss 
Isabel.  I  have  met  her  in  different  places.  Once 
at  the  market  place  in  Crawford  Street  in  town.  I 
was  talking  with  her  when  my  father  came  up. 
When  I  went  home  he  said  I  was  getting  entirely 
too  intimate  with  'that  Proctor  girl.'  He  objected 
to  my  becoming  intimate  with  her  for  several  rea 
sons.  Since  the  death  of  her  parents  and  her 


52  IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

coming  to  live  with  Mr.  Arnold  my  father  regards 
her  as  a  servant,  and  positively  forbids  my  asso 
ciating  with  her.  While  there  is  nothing  but  friend 
ship  between  Miss  Isabel  and  me,  I  am  acting  upon 
principle,  and  rather  than  snub  a  true  and  virtuous 
young  woman,  simply  because  she  is  poor  in  this 
world's  goods,  I  would  share  a  similar  lot  and 
leave  home  forever.  When  quantity  of  money 
makes  the  only  distinction  between  us  I  don't 
think  it  means  much,  after  all.  To  my  mind 
character  is  everything,  and  until  I  know  to  the  con 
trary  I  shall  treat  Miss  Isabel  as  she  deserves  to  be 
treated.  I  told  my  father  this,  and  he  said  I  might 
take  the  servant  girl  and  the  Bible  and  go  to  the 
ends  of  the  earth.  Uncle  Zeke,  there's  never  been 
a  word  of  love  spoken  between  Miss  Isabel  and  me, 
but  since  she  has  become  the  partial  cause  of  my 
leaving  home  I  feel  a  strange,  new  interest  in  her. 
And  last  night — I  can't  tell  why — a  strange  feeling 
came  over  me.  As  we  stood  in  the  path  near  the 
myrtle  thicket,  and  I  held  her  hand — " 

"La  sakes,  Mars  Lonny,"  interrupted  the  old 
man,  rising  as  he  spoke,  "did  yer  see  Missis  Bel 
in  all  dat  storm  las'  night?" 

"I  met  her  at  the  myrtle  thicket,  just  before  the 
storm.  She  had  been  looking  for  a  doctor.  I  hadn't 
time  to  explain  what  I  have  told  you,  but  I  saw  her 
safely  to  Mr.  Arnold's  door  and  the  storm  came 
upon  me  before  I  could  make  my  way  here.  It  was 
Miss  Isabel  who  told  me  to  come  here,  and  that  I 
would  find  a  welcome ;  and,  when  I  clasped  her  hand 
in  mine,  my  heart  throbbed  faster.  Until  last  night, 


ZEKE  MAKES  A  DISCOVERY  53 

when  I  met  her,  all  young  women  were  the  same 
to  me.  The  fact  that  my  father  objected  to  her  for 
the  reasons  he  assigned  created  a  sympathy  and  ten 
derness  for  her;  but  since  I  bade  her  good-bye  at 
the  veranda  my  feeling  is  more  than  sympathy,  and 
it  is  not  tenderness,  simply.  It  is  more.  I  can't 
explain  it.  I — I — fear — " 

"La  bless  my  ol'  soul,  Mars  Lonny,"  shouted  the 
old  negro,  gleefully,  "I  knows  what  dat  is!  I 
knows  egzackly  what  'tis.  Yer  luvs  Missis  Bel,  an' 
I  knows  it." 

"I  am  not  so  sure,  Uncle  Zeke,"  replied  young 
Darwood,  smiling  at  the  negro's  delight,  "whether 
it  is  love  or  not,  but  I  am  certain  my  interest  in  her 
is  very  great ;  and  I  have  a  desire  to  see  her  and  to  be 
with  her  all  the  time,  which  was  not  the  case  before. 
I  am  glad  I  left  home  on  her  account.  Yes,  I  could 
die  for  her !" 

Uncle  Zeke  made  no  comment  upon  this  outburst, 
but  went  about  preparing  breakfast.  When  it  was 
over,  and  a  fresh  log  was  laid  upon  the  fire,  Le- 
onidas  drew  from  his  pocket  the  little  gold  watch 
his  mother  had  pressed  into  his  hand  the  evening 
before,  and  remarked,  in  an  undertone: 

"It's  'most  time  for  her  to  be  here,  and  I  shall 
soon  see  her  again." 

"What's  dat,  Mars  Lonny?"  asked  Uncle  Zeke, 
with  surprise.  "Is  Missis  Bel  cumin'  ter  ol'  Zeke's 
cabin?  Did  she  say  she  wus  cumin'?  Ef  she  sed 
so,  she'll  be  hyar — min'  dat.  An'  she'll  be  hyar  on 
de  tick  ob  dat  watch.  She's  er  gal  ob  her  word, 
she  is." 

5 


54          IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

"Yes,  Uncle  Zeke;  she's  coming,"  answered  Le- 
onidas,  recalling  every  word  and  movement  of  Isa 
bel  as  she  bade  him  good  night  and  whispered,  lest 
some  one  might  hear,  "You  may  expect  me  at  nine." 


CHAPTER  VII 
AT  NINE  IN  THE  MORNING 

WHILE  Isabel  was  attending  to  her  chores,  both 
indoors  and  out,  the  parting  words  of  Leonidas — 
as  he  and  she  had  stood  by  the  veranda — recurred 
to  her  over  and  over,  and  she  wondered  what  the 
words  could  mean:  "My  story  concerns  my  relig 
ious  convictions,  and — and — you."  How  he  had 
hesitated  and  stammered,  and  how  his  voice  had 
trembled  as  he  endeavored  to  say,  "and — and — 
you!" 

Isabel  had  never  made  a  promise  that  she  felt 
more  anxious  to  keep  than  the  one  to  meet  Leonidas 
at  nine  o'clock  that  morning.  As  the  tall  clock  in 
the  hall  of  Arnold's  house  struck  nine  Isabel  rapped 
at  the  door  of  Uncle  Zeke's  cabin. 

"There  Miss  Isabel  is  now,"  said  Leonidas. 
"That  must  be  her  knocking.  Listen !" 

"Dat's  so,  Mars  Lonny,  I  tol'  yer  dat  Missis  Bel 
would  be  hyar  on  de  tick  ob  dat  watch,  an'  hyar  she 
am,"  said  Zeke,  as  he  crossed  the  room  with  un 
usual  activity,  and  threw  the  door  wide  open.  "Cum 
in,  Missis  Bel,"  said  Zeke,  with  hearty  welcome, 
"hyar's  Mars  Lonny  Darwood." 

Isabel  stepped  into  the  cabin,  and  stood  by  young 
Darwood's  side.  Her  dress  of  coarse  linen,  plainly 
made,  was  singularly  becoming.  The  light-figured 


$6  IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

shawl,  of  richer  texture  and  brighter  hue,  which 
dropped  lightly  about  her  shoulders,  seemed  espe 
cially  designed  for  her.  She  was  a  trifle  above  me 
dium  height,  and  just  plump  enough  to  make  her 
proportions  perfect.  The  contour  of  her  face  and 
her  features  were  regular  and  the  complexion  was 
of  a  pearly  clearness.  Her  mouth  was  well  formed 
and  firmly  set,  drooping  slightly  at  the  corners,  in 
dicating  a  serious  and  firm  character.  Under  brows 
almost  semicircular  in  form  beamed  forth  eyes  of  a 
glorious  brown.  Her  heavy  dark  hair,  arranged  to 
hang  in  large  puffs,  seemed  to  have  both  noon  and 
midnight  light  in  its  rich  sheen. 

As  she  looked  up  into  the  eyes  of  Leonidas  she 
could  not  control  the  delightful  emotion  which  flut 
tered  her  breast.  Her  heart  beat  faster  than  was 
its  wont,  and  drove  the  blood  into  her  usually  pale 
face.  Her  lips  quivered  as  she  endeavored  to  speak, 
and  her  fingers  played  nervously  at  the  waist  of  her 
dress.  She  wondered  all  the  while  if  Leonidas 
could  detect  her  emotions,  or  see  that  she  was  not 
calm.  She  noted  his  stalwart  form,  and  saw  the 
strong  character  in  his  handsome  face.  Could  the 
mysterious  influence  of  his  presence  upon  her  mean 
that  she  already  loved  him? 

She  was  anxious  to  hear  the  story  of  Leonidas's 
banishment  from  home,  and  deferred  the  account 
of  her  own  experiences  of  the  night  before — thrill 
ing  though  they  were. 

"Are  you  ready,  now,  to  tell  me  what  happened 
yesterday?"  asked  Isabel  with  a  great  effort  at 
composure,  though  her  heart  was  beating  like  that 


AT  NINE  IN  THE  MORNING  57 

of  a  panting  deer  just  escaping  from  a  long  and 
exciting  chase. 

Leonidas  related  at  some  length  the  interview 
with  his  father,  explaining  how  emphatic  had  been 
the  older  man's  demands. 

"Miss  Proctor,  there  was  no  other  course  open  to 
me  than  the  one  I  have  chosen.  My  father  was  de 
termined,  and  you  know  that  a  compromised  re 
ligion  is  no  religion  at  all.  I  could  neither  accept 
nor  propose  a  compromise." 

"I  understand  that  part  of  your  story,"  said  Isa 
bel,  "and  I  fully  justify  your  course.  But  I  am  cu 
rious  to  know  just  how  I  can  be  concerned  in  your 
departure  from  home." 

Leonidas  hesitated  for  a  moment,  and  wondered 
how  he  might  say  to  Isabel  just  what  was  in  his 
heart,  without  appearing  too  abrupt.  Now  that  he 
was  face  to  face  with  her  it  was  not  so  easy  a  task. 

Uncle  Zeke,  with  fine  courtesy,  knowing  what 
Leonidas  was  likely  to  say  to  Isabel,  had  taken  his 
hickory  cane  and  gone  out  to  view  the  wreckage  of 
the  great  storm. 

"Miss  Proctor,"  began  Leonidas  with  tender  hes 
itancy,  "my  father  is  a  proud  man,  and  forbids  my 
having  anything  to  do  with  you,  because  he  thinks 
you  are  below  my  station  socially.  He  has  seen  us 
several  times  together,  and  suspects  there  is  more 
than  friendship  between  us.  He  became  violently 
exasperated  when  I  told  the  truth  concerning  it. 
He  positively  protested  against  my  giving  you  any 
attention,  as  an  equal,  with  the  penalty  of  having  to 
leave  home  if  I  disobeyed  his  command." 


58          IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

At  the  last  statement,  Isabel  became  deadly  pale. 
With  a  trembling  voice,  and  a  nervous  movement 
of  her  bloodless  lips,  she  said,  faltering  between 
her  words:  "Mr.  Darwood,  and — you — didn't — 
agree — to — have — nothing — to — do — with  —  me? 
I'm — nothing — to — you.  Why — should — you — • 
leave — home — on — my — account  ?" 

"No,"  replied  Leonidas,  and  his  countenance 
grew  eloquent  with  feeling.  "No,  Miss  Proctor,  I 
did  not  agree.  My  father  had  no  right  to  make 
such  a  demand.  I  am  determined  to  treat  you  as 
you  deserve  to  be  treated,  and  when  I  had  no  al 
ternative  but  to  be  discourteous  to  you  or  leave 
home  I  did  not  hesitate  to  make  the  choice.  I  am 
proud  to  have  so  chosen." 

Leonidas,  reading  the  emotions  in  Isabel's  elo 
quent  eyes,  and  drawing  closer  to  where  she  stood, 
said  in  a  somewhat  unsteady  voice:  "Miss  Proc 
tor,  you — said — you — were  nothing  to  me  when  I 
left  home  on  your  account.  You — are — now ;  aren't 
you?" 

The  speech  was  painful  in  its  hesitancy.  He  ven 
tured  to  lift  her  hand  within  an  inch  or  two  of  his 
lips. 

Isabel  perceived  where  an  answer  to  the  ques 
tion  might  end,  and  was  not  prepared  for  the  end 
ing.  As  it  appeared  to  her,  it  was  a  direct  question, 
and  an  answer  might  be  vital.  There  were  other 
matters  with  which  her  heart  was  throbbing  which 
must  be  settled  before  she  could  dispose  of  the  ques 
tion  with  a  monosyllable. 

"Miss  Proctor,"  said  Leonidas,  still  holding  her 


AT  NINE  IN  THE  MORNING  59 

hand,  "you  do  not  answer,  and,  though  you  hesi 
tate,  permit  me  to  say  that  you  are  more  to  me  than 
anyone  else  in  the  whole  world." 

The  blood  rushed  to  Isabel's  face,  and  a  peculiar 
sensation  disturbed  her.  She  trembled  violently 
and  realized  that  she  could  no  longer  pretend  not 
to  understand  the  drift  of  Leonidas's  words. 

"Do — you — mean, — Mr.  Darwood, — that — you 
— that — you — "  stammered  Isabel, — "what  did 
you  say?" 

"There  is  no  reason  for  longer  concealing  the 
truth.  I  mean  that  I  love  you.  You  are  all  the 
world  to  me,  and  you  have  been  since  our  chance 
meeting  at  the  myrtles.  Did  I  say  chance?  I  mean 
providential.  I  cannot  express  what  you  mean  to 
me,  Miss  Proctor."  He  now  pressed  her  hand  to 
his  lips,  holding  it  there  for  what  to  Isabel  seemed 
an  age.  Then  placing  one  of  his  arms  around  her, 
and  looking  into  her  eyes,  he  whispered : 

"Don't  call  me  Mr.  Darwood  again;  call  me  Le- 
onidas.  May  I  call  you  Isabel  ?" 

The  question  was  scarcely  uttered  when  the 
cabin  door  opened  quickly,  and  Uncle  Zeke  came 
stumbling  in  without  ceremony. 

"Mars  Gabel's  crazy  ergin,  Missis  Bel,"  blurted 
out  the  old  man,  as  he  nearly  fell  upon  the  floor. 
"Yes,  indeedy,  Mars  Gabel's  crazy  ergin,  an'  he's 
holrin',  an'  er  cryin';  an'  den  he  sez,  'Jack,  Jack, 
take  de  wretch  away.'  I's  scyard  fur  yer,  Mars 
Lonny.  Is  dat  strange  man,  what  I's  bin  tellin'  yer 
'bout,  name  Jack?  Is  dat  who  Mars  Gabel  means, 
Missis  Bel?" 


60  IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

Isabel  knew  from  the  few  words  spoken  by  Uncle 
Zeke  that  her  Uncle  Gabriel  was  in  the  throes  of 
one  of  his  paroxysms,  and  that  it  was  necessary  for 
her  to  hurry  to  his  side.  The  anxious  expression  of 
her  face  indicated  that  she  was  greatly  concerned 
at  the  information. 

"Be  on  your  guard/'  said  Isabel,  anxiously,  ad 
dressing  Leonidas. 

"Why?"  asked  Leonidas.  "Why  are  you  so  con 
cerned  ?" 

"Last  night,"  responded  Isabel,  hesitating,  "last 
night  a  rough  man  came  to  my  Uncle  Gabriel's 
room,  and  they  talked  until  four  o'clock;  and  the 
strange  man  knew  you  were  here,  and  told  Uncle 
Gabriel." 

"Did  they  say  anything  about  me?"  asked  Le 
onidas,  with  some  concern  in  his  tone. 

"Yes,  much,"  answered  Isabel.  "Uncle  Gabriel 
is  afraid  of  you,  since  you  came  to  Uncle  Zeke's, 
and  he  wants  this  rough  man  to  get  you  out  of  the 
way,  and  I  feel  sure  he  will  accomplish  your  ruin 
if  he  can.  It  appears  that  he  lives  in  the  swamp; 
and  that  Uncle  Gabriel  wishes  him,  in  some  way,  to 
take  you  where  he  lives.  My  uncle  said  he  wanted 
you  out  of  the  way  at  almost  any  cost ;  still  he  didn't 
want  this  man  to  kill  you.  Do  be  careful." 

Isabel  left  Leonidas  and  Uncle  Zeke  exchanging 
meaning  looks,  and  hurried  back  to  her  uncle  be 
fore  Leonidas  could  have  further  speech  with  her. 


CHAPTER  VIII 
IN  THE  PINE  WOODS 

AFTER  considerable  deliberation  Leonidas  de 
cided  to  seek  counsel  from  Dr.  Demster  as  to  what 
course  he  had  best  pursue.  The  doctor  was  a  be 
nevolent  and  respected,  though  somewhat  feared, 
old  man,  who  lived  at  Deep  Creek.  As  he  made 
his  simple  preparation  for  the  journey  he  wondered 
what  the  physician  would  think  of  his  action,  and 
whether  he  would  understand  what  a  crisis  the  in 
terview  between  his  father  and  himself  had  been. 

Uncle  Zeke  was  busy,  meanwhile,  preparing  din 
ner  for  Leonidas,  and  when  the  meal  was  ready 
both  he  and  the  old  slave  sat  together  at  the  rough 
pine  table.  The  meal  was  plainer  than  any  that 
had  ever  before  been  set  before  young  Darwood, 
and  consisted  of  a  johnnycake,  a  slice  of  fat  bacon, 
a  yam  baked  in  the  ashes,  and  a  bowl  of  pot-liquor 
saved  from  the  day  before.  There  was  no  dessert, 
and  the  cooking  was  of  the  crudest  and  most  prim 
itive  sort  known  to  Southern  life.  Leonidas,  how 
ever,  did  not  find  it  difficult  to  adapt  himself  to  cir 
cumstances  and  partook  gratefully  of  the  rough 
meal,  which  was  sweetened  by  the  hospitality  of 
Uncle  Zeke. 

"Uncle  Zeke,"  said  Leonidas,  as  they  rose  from 
the  table,  "it  is  time  for  me  to  start  for  Deep  Creek. 


62  IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

It's  eight  miles,  you  know,  and  I  want  to  get  there 
before  dark.  Which  is  the  best  way  out,  so  as  to 
attract  the  least  attention?  If  I  am  seen  by  Mr. 
Arnold's  sister,  Betty,  it  will  excite  suspicion,  and 
start  a  great  many  questions  as  to  why  I  am  here, 
though,  from  what  Isabel  says,  my  presence  is  al 
ready  suspected." 

"Mars  Lonny,"  said  Uncle  Zeke,  "yer  jes  slip 
out'n  de  back  doe,  an'  down  jam  by  de  line  of  sica- 
moes  ter  de  gate.  Mabbe  nobody  won't  see  yer. 
When  yet  gits  haf  way  down  de  sicamoe  lane,  dars 
er  path  dat  cuts  through  dat  pine  woods.  Mars  Lon 
ny,  yer  jes  keep  under  de  sicamoes.  Min'  now,  what 
I's  tellin'  yer.  Don't  go  through  dat  pine  woods. 
Dars  er  branch  dat  runs  through  de  woods,  but, 
Mars  Lonny,  I  ax  yer  not  ter  go  ter  dat  branch.  Keep 
out'n  de  pine  woods."  As  Zeke  uttered  these  words 
his  voice  faltered;  his  limbs  trembled,  and  he 
dropped  back  upon  the  stool  where  Leonidas  had 
been  sitting. 

The  appeal  in  both  word  and  voice,  and  the  pe 
culiar  advice  about  the  pine  woods,  and  the  branch, 
aroused  the  interest  of  young  Darwood.  His  curi 
osity  had  been  so  recently  excited  at  Uncle  Zeke's 
mention  of  the  "Dark  Day,"  that  as  he  stood  look 
ing  into  the  old  man's  eyes  he  wondered  if  there 
were  any  connection  between  the  "Dark  Day,"  the 
"pine  woods,"  and  the  "branch." 

"Uncle  Zeke,  why  don't  you  want  me  to  go 
through  the  pine  woods  ?  It  is  a  much  nearer  way, 
and  I  should  not  be  so  likely  to  attract  attention. 
Once  in  the  woods,  I  should  be  sure  to  get  off  the 


IN  THE  PINE  WOODS  63 

farm  without  being  seen.  When  I  reach  the  road, 
there  will  be  no  questions  for  you  to  answer.  You 
see  it  is  far  better  for  all  of  us,  Miss  Isabel,  you 
and  myself,  for  me  to  go  through  the  woods." 

"It  looks  dat  way  ter  yer,  Mars  Lonny,"  the  old 
slave  reluctantly  admitted,  "but  ol'  Zeke  tells  yer  not 
ter  go  through  dat  pine  woods,  an'  down  by  dat 
branch.  Min'  what  I  tells  yer,  Mars  Lonny.  I 
means  what  I  sez.  Don't  yer  go  in  dat  woods." 

"But  why  shouldn't  I  go,  Uncle  Zeke?"  persisted 
Leonidas.  "I  should  like  to  know.  There  is  nothing 
in  there  to  hurt  me,  is  there?" 

"Y-e-e-e-e-s  surree,  dar  am,  Mars  Lonny,"  pro 
tested  Uncle  Zeke,  becoming  more  and  more  ner 
vous,  "dars  er  ghost  in  dat  pine  woods ;  an'  he  walks 
up  an'  down  de  branch,  an'  wades  in  de  worter; 
an'  when  he  gits  tard  er  walkin'  he  sets  down  under 
er  big  pine  tree,  an'  hols  his  han'  up  ter  his  head; 
an'  I  knows  jes  why  he  hols  his  han'  up  ter  his 
head,  too." 

"And  so  you  think  there  is  a  ghost  in  the  woods, 
do  you,  Uncle  Zeke?" 

"Y-e-e-e-e-s  surree,  dat  I  duz.  I  knows  it  right 
smart.  I's  dun  seed  dat  ghost;  an'  he  dun  jes  lak 
I  tells  yer,"  said  Zeke,  in  a  trembling  voice,  as  he 
observed  that  Leonidas  was  a  trifle  skeptical  about 
the  presence  of  the  ghost. 

"How  long  has  the  ghost  been  in  the  woods  ?" 

Uncle  Zeke  hesitated  for  a  moment,  arose  from 
the  cricket,  and  walked  back  and  forth  across  the 
floor.  Tremulously,  and  with  evidence  of  great 
uneasiness,  he  finally  said,  "Mars  Lonny,  dat  ghost 


64  IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

dun  bin  in  dat  woods  ebber  sence  de  'Dark  Day' 
what  I's  bin  tellin'  yer  'bout." 

"Whose  ghost  do  you  suppose  it  is?  and  why  do 
you  think  it  stays  in  that  particular  piece  of  woods  ? 
Why  has  it  been  in  there  only  since  the  'Dark  Day?' 
Have  you  never  seen  the  ghost  anywhere  else  but 
in  the  pine  woods?" 

"Don't  ax  me  dat,  Mars  Lonny,"  said  the  old 
man,  shuddering  at  the  fire  of  questions.  "Zeke 
knows,  but  he  hain't  gwine  ter  tell  dat."  In  his  agi 
tation  he  sank  from  the  stool  into  a  heap  upon  the 
floor. 

Leonidas  stepped  quickly  to  the  old  man  and 
helped  him  to  the  seat,  conjecturing  that  there  must 
be  some  vital  connection  between  the  "Dark  Day" 
and  the  ghost  of  the  pine  woods. 

"Never  mind,  Uncle  Zeke,  I  am  not  afraid  of 
ghosts,  and  I  think  I  will  go  through  the  pine 
woods,  anyhow.  It  is  so  much  nearer  and  seems 
to  me  to  be  the  best  way  to  avoid  discovery." 

This  brought  the  old  slave  to  his  feet,  though 
with  considerable  effort.  He  stood  in  front  of  Le 
onidas,  and  looking  into  his  eyes  said,  in  a  beseech 
ing  tone,  "Fur  God's  sake,  Mars  Lonny,  don't  go 
in  dat  woods." 

"All  right,  Uncle  Zeke,  don't  worry  about  me. 
I'll  do  the  best  thing.  You  leave  the  way  to  me. 
You  have  told  me  the  two,  and  now  I'll  make  the 
selection.  Uncle  Zeke,  I'll  never  forget  your  kind 
ness  to  me,"  said  Leonidas.  "The*  time  may  come 
when  I  can  return  the  favor.  If  it  ever  does,  I  shall 
not  forget  you." 


IN  THE  PINE  WOODS  65 

"Don't  tell  'bout  dat  now,  Mars  Lonny;  Zeke's 
gwine  ter  hep  yer  when  he  kin.  Ef  he  kin  hep  yer 
ter  git  Missis  Bel,  he's  gwine  ter  do  dat,  too." 

"Thank  you.  I  may  need  your  help,  Uncle  Zeke. 
I  mean  to  get  her  in  spite  of  them." 

"Yer  jes  tell  ol'  Zeke  how  ter  do,  an'  he'll  do  it, 
Mars  Lonny,"  said  the  old  man,  earnestly. 

"I  may  need  you  in  many  ways,  but  you  can 
more  than  likely  be  of  service  to  me  in  getting  word 
to  Miss  Isabel.  It  may  happen  that  I  shall  send 
some  word  to  her,  and  I  shall  expect  you  to  take  it 
to  her  in  person.  Never  deliver  it  to  any  one  else. 
If  I  find  a  trusty  messenger  he  may  be  compelled  to 
come  at  night,  and  if  he  does  I  shall  tell  him  to  rap 
on  your  door  five  times — twice  very  hard,  and  twice 
not  so  hard,  and  once  quite  loud  again.  You  will 
not  forget  this  signal,,  will  you,  Uncle  Zeke?" 

"No,  Mars  Lonny,  I  shan't  furgit.  I's  got  it  right 
now,"  went  on  Uncle  Zeke,  with  evident  satisfac 
tion  ;  "five  knocks ;  two  loud  uns,  two  easy  uns,  an' 
den  wun  moe  loud  un.  Hain't  dat  it?" 

"That  is  right." 

Leonidas  left  the  cabin  by  the  back  door,  and 
wound  his  way  in  and  out  among  the  slave  huts 
which  still  stood  at  Briarcrest,  and  the  debris  which 
was  left  strewn  around  after  the  great  storm,  until 
he  entered  the  lane  bounded  on  both  sides  by  the 
huge  sycamores.  As  he  hurried  toward  the  road 
way  on  the  east  of  the  farm  his  mind  was  busy  with 
thoughts  engendered  by  the  conversation  with 
Uncle  Zeke.  In  a  moment  more  Leonidas  stood  at 
the  entrance  of  the  path  which  led  through  the  pine 


66          IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

woods.  It  was  partly  obscured  by  a  growth  of  wild 
honeysuckles  and  swamp  laurel,  but  there  was  no 
doubt  in  his  mind  that  this  was  the  one  described 
by  Uncle  Zeke.  He  hesitated  a  moment,  debating 
whether  he  should  take  the  path  or  keep  on  along 
the  road. 

The  decision  was  soon  made,  and  he  disappeared 
in  the  undergrowth  and  was  soon  among  the  pines. 
In  the  midst  of  the  skirt  of  pines  there  is  a  stream 
that  runs  lazily  through  Briarcrest,  winding  its  way 
without  a  ripple  from  one  end  of  the  farm  to  the 
other.  But  for  the  little  obstructions  of  fallen  limbs, 
and  the  accumulations  of  pine  needles  and  leaves, 
the  sound  of  the  brook  would  never  be  heard  save 
after  a  great  fall  of  rain,  such  as  was  the  case  on  the 
previous  night.  Leonidas  leaped  the  stream  with 
the  aid  of  an  oak  limb  that  had  been  dislodged  from 
the  tree.  As  he  alighted  upon  the  other  side  his 
left  foot  struck  violently  against  the  bank.  In  the 
dirt  and  straw  dislodged  he  discovered  what  to 
him  looked  like  a  medal.  A  closer  inspection  re 
vealed  it  to  be  one  of  a  unique  design,  the  like  of 
which  he  had  never  seen  before. 

This  medal  consisted  of  a  cross  of  ten  points  made 
of  white  enameled  metal,  edged  heavily  around  with 
gold,  the  points  of  the  cross  being  ornamented  be 
tween  with  a  wreath  of  laurel.  In  the  center,  form 
ing  the  body  of  the  cross,  was  a  circle  of  blue, 
around  the  circumference  of  which  were  the  words, 
"Napoleon  III,  Empereur  des  Franc,ais."  In  the 
middle  of  the  azure  circle  was  the  profile  of  the 
Emperor  Louis  Napoleon,  while  over  the  medal,  and 


MEDAL  OF  LEGION  OF  HONOR  OF  THE  SECOND  FRENCH  EMPIRE 


IN  THE  PINE  WOODS  67 

attached  to  the  points  of  the  cross  with  links  of  gold, 
was  a  miniature  facsimile  of  the  imperial  crown  of 
France.  This  was  attached  to  what  seemed  to  be 
a  piece  of  faded  red  ribbon,  though  it  was  difficult 
to  tell  just  what  the  original  color  had  been.  On 
the  ribbon  could  be  distinctly  discerned  a  single 
spot,  darker  in  color  than  the  surrounding  texture. 
For  the  curious  spot  there  was  no  apparent  expla 
nation. 

Leonidas,  of  course,  surmised  that  the  medal  was 
now,  or  had  been,  owned  by  some  French  noble 
man.  The  design  upon  the  face  of  it  indicated  that 
it  belonged  to  one  of  high  rank  who  had  figured 
conspicuously  in  the  affairs  of  the  Second  French 
Empire,  and  that  the  owner  of  the  medal  was  a 
member  of  the  Legion  of  Honor. 

Leonidas  knew  that  the  Legion  of  Honor  was  a 
rank  of  distinction  instituted  by  the  great  Napoleon. 
Its  object  was  to  counteract  the  tendencies  of  royal 
ty  that  might  be  slumbering  after  the  great  up 
heaval.  But  there  is  no  doubt  now  that  the  mem 
bers  were  designed  by  him  to  be  the  noblemen  of 
his  future  Imperialistic  Government,  which  end  he 
always  had  in  mind.  So  formidable  did  the  Legion 
become,  and  so  indissolubly  a  part  of  France,  that 
even  after  the  fall  of  Napoleon  and  the  collapse 
of  the  Empire  it  never  lost  its  identity.  Despite 
the  instability  of  the  French  mind  and  the  many 
vicissitudes  of  government — whether  Consulate, 
Republic,  Empire  or  Kingdom — it  did  much  to 
shape  the  nation's  policy. 

Under  the  regime  of  Napoleon  III  there  were 


68  IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

changes  in  the  Legion,  among  which  was  a  modifi 
cation  of  the  insignia,  which  now  bore  his  own 
image  and  the  inscription  of  the  Second  Empire. 

Why  this  medal  should  be  on  Arnold's  farm,  how 
long  it  had  lain  there,  and  to  whom  it  belonged, 
were  questions  which  insistently  flitted  through  the 
brain  of  Leonidas.  The  presence  of  the  medal  in 
this  obscure  spot  might  be  accounted  for  by  the 
owner's  having  been  hunting  in  the  pine  woods  and 
losing  it.  However,  this  explanation  was  not  sat 
isfactory,  and  the  dark  spot  on  the  ribbon  grew  curi 
ously  important  to  him.  From  the  general  appear 
ance  of  the  medal  he  judged  that  it  had  not  been 
there  a  great  length  of  time;  and  though  the  red 
ribbon  had  faded,  its  state  of  preservation  showed 
that  it  had  not  long  been  exposed  to  the  elements. 
The  fact  that  it  bore  the  imprint  of  the  Empire  of 
Napoleon  III  indicated  its  recent  origin. 

Leonidas  was  not  disposed  to  be  of  a  mysterious 
turn  of  mind,  but,  despite  his  effort  to  look  at  the 
finding  of  the  medal  in  a  matter-of-fact  way,  he  felt 
that  in  connection  with  it  there  must  be  a  strange 
history.  He  put  the  medal  in  his  trousers'  pocket 
and  resumed  his  way  through  the  lonely  woods  to 
the  Gosport  road,  speculating  on  probable  solutions 
of  the  mystery.  When  out  of  the  pines  he  took  the 
medal  from  his  pocket  to  examine  it  more  closely, 
and,  rubbing  it  against  the  sleeve  of  his  coat  to  re 
move  the  dirt  still  adhering  to  it,  he  discovered 
what  he  had  not  seen  before:  it  was  in  inscription 
upon  the  reverse  side. 

It  was  in  French,  and  Leonidas  could  not  get  its 


IN  THE  PINE  WOODS  69 

full  meaning,  but  the  date  and  name  were  striking 
ly  significant  and  suggestive.  It  consisted  of  these 
words:  "Adjuge  au  Comte  de  Bussy  pour  des 
services  galants  a  Magenta  et  a  Solferino  en  Fan 
de  Grace  1859." 

As  Leonidas  came  to  the  point  where  the  Gos- 
port  road  and  the  Deep  Creek  road,  leading  from 
Portsmouth,  intercept,  a  rattlesnake  lay  coiled  un 
der  an  osage-orange  hedge,  and,  after  the  manner 
of  his  kind,  upon  hearing  the  sound  of  the  young 
man's  approach,  shook  his  rattles  vigorously,  and 
then  sprang  several  times  its  length  in  the  direc 
tion  of  the  intruder.  The  rattlesnake,  being  almost 
sightless  and  trusting  only  to  sound,  missed  Le 
onidas,  who  was  moving  at  a  rapid  gait,  passed  the 
calf  of  his  leg  and  dropped  twelve  inches  or  more 
beyond  his  foot.  He  instantly  realized  his  danger, 
and  with  a  hickory  stick  which  he  carried  dealt 
one  blow  which  straightened  the  venomous  reptile 
its  full  length  upon  the  ground  just  as  it  was  ready 
for  the  second  assault. 

As  soon  as  Leonidas  recovered  from  the  shock 
of  surprise  at  the  snake's  attack  he  recalled  the  fact 
that  there  is  a  superstition  in  Tidewater  to  the  ef 
fect  that  a  vital  relation  exists  between  one's  ene 
mies  and  a  snake.  To  kill  the  snake,  it  is  claimed, 
is  to  overcome  all  of  one's  enemies.  Of  course,  he 
had  no  faith  in  the  superstition,  but  against  his  will 
it  made  its  impression  on  him  and  filled  him  with 
new  resolution  and  courage. 

At  dusk  Leonidas  crossed  the  bridge  over,  the 
stream  on  which  Deep  Creek  is  situated,  and  entered 


70  IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

the  village.  Presently  his  ear  detected  a  distressed 
groan  as  he  neared  the  tavern.  He  distinctly  heard, 
but  could  not  tell  the  meaning  of  the  words  which 
he  recognized  as  coming  from  Ezra,  the  wounded 
bear  trainer: 

"Gewald!  Gewald!  In  Gots  numen  rahtivit 
mich." 

Leonidas  entered  the  tavern,  made  arrangements 
for  the  night's  stay,  and  found  his  way  to  the  suf 
fering  man's  room,  where  he  was  received  with  joy 
so  intense  that  for  the  moment  Ezra  forgot  his  pain. 


CHAPTER  IX 
CONCERNING  JACK  MOBALY 

BY  three  in  the  morning,  after  the  killing  of  the 
bear,  the  market  folk  had  departed  from  the  vil 
lage.  The  place  was  left  perfectly  quiet,  except  as 
the  residents  of  Deep  Creek  gathered  around  the 
front  of  Audierne  Tavern  to  view  the  dead  bear, 
whose  body  still  remained  where  it  had  fallen.  One 
after  another  walked  to  the  place,  to  linger  only  a 
moment,  shake  his  head  and  walk  away  with  some 
comment  upon  the  ruffian  in  the  red  shirt  who 
caused  the  trouble  between  the  bear  and  his  master. 

Theories  concerning  the  man  were  abundant. 
One  person  claimed  to  have  knowledge  of  him,  and 
to  have  recognized  him  as  he  struck  the  bear  with 
the  whip.  Three  young  men  of  the  village  were 
discussing  his  identity  quietly  near  the  tavern. 

"Joe,  do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  have  seen  the 
fellow  in  the  red  shirt  before?"  asked  Will  Cherry, 
as  they  bent  their  heads  closer  together  lest  some  one 
might  overhear. 

"Unless  I  am  very  much  mistaken,  I  have  seen 
that  man  before;  and  while  I  would  not  care  to 
swear  to  it,  there  is  little  doubt  in  my  mind  that  I 
have  seen  him  before  yesterday,"  replied  Joe  Garry, 
with  a  degree  of  assurance  in  his  manner  that  in 
spired  confidence. 


72  IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

"But  where  in  the  world  did  you  ever  see  him  ?" 
questioned  Jim  Culpepper.  "He  is  a  perfect  stran 
ger  about  the  Creek,  and  no  one  seems  to  know  any 
thing  about  him." 

"In  the  courthouse  in  Portsmouth,"  answered 
Joe  Garry,  promptly,  and  in  spite  of  himself  raising 
his  voice. 

"Not  so  loud,  Joe,"  said  the  other  two  young  men, 
at  once. 

"Let  us  get  to  a  quieter  place,"  suggested  Will 
Cherry. 

The  three  moved  behind  the  northwest  corner  of 
the  house.  When  they  had  seated  themselves  upon 
a  cypress  log  Jim  Culpepper  touched  Garry  upon 
the  arm  and  said  in  a  commanding  tone,  "Blaze 
away,  Joe;  we  won't  be  interrupted  here." 

"Well,  as  I  was  saying,"  said  Garry,  "I  saw  that 
man  in  the  courthouse  in  Portsmouth  about  one 
year  ago,  as  near  as  I  can  come  at  it.  He  was  being 
tried  for  burning  a  house  down,  and  the  case  was  so 
clear  against  him  that  he  was  sentenced  for  ten 
years  at  hard  labor  in  the  Richmond  penitentiary. 
There  were  three  of  them  implicated  in  the  crime. 
It  was  said  at  the  time  that  one  of  them  furnished 
the  light  wood,  another  the  matches,  and  the  third 
set  fire  to  the  house.  They  caught  the  man  who 
furnished  the  matches,  and  he  turned  state's  evi 
dence,  which  caused  the  arrest  of  the  other  two. 
The  scamp  who  told  on  the  others  was  released  for 
his  services  as  a  witness  for  the  state,  and — " 

"What  a  low  trick  that  was!"  interrupted  Cul 
pepper. 


CONCERNING  JACK  MOBALY  73 

"Well,  they  pardoned  the  man  they  first  caught," 
continued  Garry,  "for  telling  on  the  other  two.  Then 
they  were  tried,  and  the  strangest  thing  occurred. 
That  is,  while  they  were  equally  guilty,  they  failed 
to  convict  one,  but  sentenced  the  other  man  to  serve 
ten  years.  The  people  said  the  jury  was  influenced 
because  the  man's  father  had  money  and  stood 
well  among  the  bontons  of  the  town.  You  see,  the 
other  man  had  no  money,  of  course,  had  no  friends, 
and  the  court  gave  him  a  heavy  sentence.  I  do  not 
think  they  were  too  hard  on  him,  but  they  ought  to 
have  served  them  all  alike." 

"But,  how  is  this,"  asked  Cherry  "you  said  they 
convicted  the  red  shirt  fellow,  and  sent  him  up  for 
ten  years,  only  a  year  ago.  This  don't  hold  to 
gether,  does  it,  Joe?" 

"Well,  wait,  can't  you?"  demanded  Garry.  "They 
put  him  into  jail  in  town  for  a  few  days,  until  the 
sheriff  could  take  him  to  Richmond;  during  that 
time  he  broke  jail,  and  the  authorities  claim  they 
have  not  been  able  to  locate  him  since." 

This  greatly  interested  the  two  listeners,  and  one 
of  them  arose  from  the  cypress  log  and  walked  a 
few  steps  away,  turning  quickly,  hurried  back,  and 
asked  with  great  earnestness :  "Joe  Garry,  do  you 
really  think  that  fellow  is  Jack  Mobaly?  Your 
story  seems  to  tally  with  the  facts  of  the  story  of 
the  fire  in  town  when  they  arrested  Jonas  Pearson, 
Hiram  Hicks  and  Jack  Mobaly." 

"Boys,  unless  I'm  very  much  mistaken,  the  man 
in  the  red  shirt  was  Jack  Mobaly.  You  know  it  has 
been  reported  for  quite  a  while  that  a  strange  man 


74          IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

has  been  seen  about  the  Creek,  and  nobody  seems 
to  know  who  he  is.  Also,  a  stranger  has  often  been 
seen  going  to  old  Gabriel  Arnold's  at  Briarcrest, 
always  at  night,  and  no  one  has  been  able  to  tell 
just  who  he  is.  Now  I'm  inclined  to  think  that  the 
two  are  the  same  person,  and  by  name  Jack  Mob- 
aly." 

"You  surely  don't  think  he  has  lived  in  the 
swamp  ever  since  he  broke  jail,  do  you,  Joe?" 

"Yes,  I  do,"  said  Joe,  emphatically.  "He  never 
went  to  Texas,  as  was  reported.  He's  been  living 
in  Dismal  Swamp,  just  as  hundreds  of  other  crimi 
nals  are  doing.  Why,  the  swamp  is  the  best  hiding- 
place  in  the  world,  and  if  a  refugee  from  justice 
once  gets  to  Culpepper  Island,  it  is  no  use  for  the 
authorities  to  look  for  him.  Many  of  the  criminals 
never  come  out  of  the  swamp.  They  have  means 
of  communication  not  known  to  many  people  in  the 
outside  world.  But  Jack  Mobaly  is  more  daring 
than  many  of  them.  After  he  had  been  there  long 
enough  to  grow  long  whiskers  and  hair,  and  change 
his  appearance,  he  grew  bold  enough  to  take  risks." 

"But,  Joe,  couldn't  this  fellow  in  the  red  shirt 
be  one  of  the  traders  ?" 

"Why,  no,"  replied  Garry,  with  a  note  of  impa 
tience  in  his  voice.  "He  fell  in  with  the  market  peo 
ple  a  short  distance  up  the  road,  and  came  here 
with  them  to  throw  the  officers  off  the  trail.  Who 
ever  heard  of  a  Carolina  trader  having  on  a  red 
flannel  shirt?  He  isn't  half  sharp,  or  he  would  get 
a  suit  of  fustian,  if  he  wanted  to  pass  as  a  trader." 

"By  the  way,  why  do  you  suppose  Mobaly  goes 


CONCERNING  JACK  MOBALY  75 

secretly  to  Briarcrest  to  see  old  Arnold  ?"  asked  Will 
Cherry,  who  had  been  listening  more  than  engaging 
in  the  conversation. 

"I  don't  know,  of  course,"  replied  Garry,  "but 
I've  an  opinion  about  that,  too.  Before  Mobaly  got 
into  that  fire  trouble  he  was  at  Briarcrest  a  great 
deal,  and  took  part  in  the  chicken  fights  there,  and 
always  bet  on  Club  Foot  in  the  races.  In  fact,  he 
and  Arnold  had  been  intimate  for  some  time.  The 
night  he  broke  jail  he  went  first  to  Briarcrest,  on 
his  way  out  to  the  swamp.  They  are  of  the  same 
stripe,  I  tell  you.  I  don't  suppose  old  Gabriel  ever 
burned  anybody's  house,  as  Mobaly  did,  but  if  the 
truth  were  known  I  should  not  be  much  surprised 
if  he  has  done  pretty  nearly  as  bad  or  maybe 
worse." 

"You  don't  mean  that  Arnold  is  a  criminal !"  ex 
claimed  one  of  the  young  men  in  surprise. 

"I  don't  know,  but  people  say  he  has  been  acting 
mighty  queer  lately.  Besides,  he  has  an  old  negro 
down  there  at  Briarcrest  who  is  boss  of  the  whole 
place  and  has  Gabriel  Arnold  under  his  thumb  as 
well.  You  know  there  is  something  wrong  when  an 
old  slave  can  have  such  an  influence  over  his  mas 
ter  ;  though  I  do  not  say  he  has  ever  committed  any 
crime,  I — " 

"Hush!  Listen!  Boys,  what's  that?"  broke  in 
Culpepper,  rising  to  go.  "Let's  leave  here.  Who 
ever  closed  that  window  may  have  overheard  us." 

Joe  Garry  had  but  stated  the  truth  concerning 
Mobaly.  Within  a  few  days  after  his  sentence  was 
pronounced,  with  several  other  convicts,  he  had  es- 


76  IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

caped  from  jail.  Mobaly  reached  Dismal  Swamp 
and  made  good  his  escape;  and  there  he  had  lived, 
going  in  and  out  of  the  swamp  at  great  risk  but 
all  the  while  escaping  discovery. 

For  many  years  the  "runaway"  blacks  and  the 
criminal  whites  had  made  Dismal  Swamp  a  hiding- 
place — the  one  class  from  their  merciless  masters, 
the  other  from  the  iron  grip  of  the  law.  When  once 
in  the  swamp  they  felt  in  a  measure  secure. 
While  fleeing,  they  were  often  trailed  by  the  keen 
Southern  bloodhounds,  and  sometimes  torn  to  death 
before  relief  could  reach  them.  But  it  was  seldom 
that  the  absconding  slaves  were  captured  after  hav 
ing  made  their  way  into  the  jungle.  The  whites, 
too,  were  captured  only  when  they  ventured  again 
into  the  outside  world. 

The  trade  in  cypress  and  juniper  shingles  fur 
nished  occupation  to  those  who  were  voluntary 
prisoners  in  the  swamp,  and  through  it  hundreds 
of  whites  and  blacks  alike  sustained  life.  Whole 
families  were  reared  who  had  never  seen  any  phase 
of  life  except  that  which  prevailed  in  their  swamp- 
prison. 

The  means  of  communication  with  the  outside 
world  were  as  unique  and  carefully  arranged  as 
was  the  method  of  transportation  on  the  famous 
"underground  railroad"  by  which  thousands  of 
slaves  made  their  escape  into  the  Northern  States 
and,  after  the  passage  of  the  Fugitive  Slave  Law, 
into  Canada. 

A  shingle  "contractor"  was  generally  the  link  of 
communication  between  the  outer  world  and  the 


CONCERNING  JACK  MOBALY  77 

world  of  the  great  swamp.  The  larger  number  of 
the  refugees  congregated  in  camps,  but  others,  for 
secret  reasons,  preferred  to  live  isolated.  All  felled 
trees  and  converted  them  into  "split"  shingles, 
which  were  delivered  to  the  "contractor,"  he  pay 
ing  for  their  labor,  and  converting  their  earnings 
into  provisions,  clothing  and  such  other  things  as 
were  required  to  make  this  life  endurable. 

Many  of  the  swamp  "contractors"  were  them 
selves  slaves,  working  out  their  freedom.  They, 
therefore,  had  sympathy  with  the  "runaways,"  and 
would  rather  die  than  betray  them,  even  had  such 
treachery  been  worth  the  risk  of  life  it  entailed.  In 
many  cases  the  dwellers  in  the  swamp  were  never 
across  its  borders  after  their  first  entrance  to  its 
friendly  recesses,  and  to  live  they  were  dependent 
upon  the  "contractor."  But  the  dependence  was 
mutual,  as  his  business  depended  upon  them,  and 
thus  their  necessity  for  protection  and  secrecy  was 
his  advantage  also. 

Into  this  kind  of  life  Jack  Mobaly  had  gone.  It 
was  really  exchanging  one  prison  for  another,  but, 
still  to  be  able  to  breathe  outside  of  four  walls,  and 
have  comparative  freedom  was  far  preferable  to 
the  dank  cell  in  the  Portsmouth  jail  or  hard  labor 
in  the  Richmond  penitentiary.  For  a  time  he  was 
content  to  breathe  the  deadly  miasma  rising  from 
the  perpetual  dampness  of  the  swamp,  and  see  the 
Jack-o'-lantern  play  hither  and  thither  in  the  dense 
forest  surrounding  his  cabin.  He  labored  at  shin 
gle  splitting  and  shingle  shaving,  and  sat  astride  of 
his  wood-horse  with  iron  teeth  and  used  a  drawing 


78  IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

knife  until  great  calloused  patches  arose  upon  the 
palms  of  his  hands  and  joints  of  his  fingers.  The 
coarse  fare  and  the  red  water  of  Dismal  Swamp 
contented  him  and  he  lived  in  the  crudest  kind  of 
cabin,  in  which  he  could  lie  upon  his  shuck  mattress 
and  count  the  stars  above  the  great  cypress  and 
juniper  trees  through  the  apertures  in  the  roof. 

Civilization  and  all  its  conveniences  of  living 
were  for  a  time  almost  forgotten,  in  the  stress  of 
the  wild  new  life.  At  length  the  stillness  of  this 
isolation  became  an  annoyance  to  him.  He  tired 
of  hearing  only  the  growl  of  the  bear,  the  bark  of 
the  wolf,  the  chatter  of  the  squirrel,  the  sissing  of 
the  water  moccasin  and  the  peculiar  tremor  of  the 
rattlesnake.  Rarely  any  other  sounds  broke  the 
silence  save  those  from  his  own  implements  of  toil, 
and  that  which  came  from  his  own  footfall,  and 
even  these  startled  him  at  times. 

Finally,  seeing  for  many  months  no  one  but  fugi 
tive  slaves  and  men  of  his  own  type,  Jack  Mob- 
aly  found  swamp  life  becoming  unendurable.  He 
hungered  for  a  sight  of  the  outside  world.  He  had 
lost  count  of  time,  for,  unlike  Alexander  Selkirk, 
he  had  failed  to  keep  tally,  and  now  all  days  were 
alike  to  him. 

In  early  autumn,  after  a  morning  spent  in  search 
of  a  bear,  Jack  Mobaly  stood  under  a  juniper  tree 
near  the  corner  of  his  cabin,  with  bowed  head  and 
serious  countenance,  looking  into  the  red  swamp 
water.  He  was  living  his  life  over  in  thought.  The 
sun  peeped  through  the  tops  of  the  trees  and  the 
wild  grape-vine  overhanging  the  little  pond,  and  he 


CONCERNING  JACK  MOBALY  79 

saw  his  image  reflected  in  the  surface  of  the  water. 
As  he  gazed  upon  the  picture,  and  saw  the  hair, 
which  dropped  upon  his  shoulders,  curling  at  the 
end,  and  his  long,  black  whiskers,  which  caused  him 
to  look  more  like  a  bear  than  a  man,  he  realized 
for  the  first  time  that  his  appearance  had  changed 
entirely  in  the  nine  months  since  his  escape  from 
jail. 

"Who  would  know  Jack  Mobaly  now?"  he  asked 
himself,  with  a  note  of  exultation  in  his  voice. 

He  put  his  musket  inside  the  cabin,  took  his 
large  leather  whip,  pulled  the  door  shut,  and  was 
soon  carefully  treading  his  secret  path  toward  Deep 
Creek.  As  he  emerged  upon  firmer  ground  his 
eagerness  became  so  great  that  he  crashed  through 
the  forest  at  a  swift  pace.  He  was  hungry  for  real 
life  in  a  genuine  world. 


CHAPTER  X 
DR.  DEMSTER 

As  soon  as  Leonidas  arrived  at  Deep  Creek  he 
made  an  appointment  with  Dr.  Demster  for  an  in 
terview  at  one  o'clock  the  following  afternoon. 
Promptly  at  that  hour  he  presented  himself  at  the 
office,  and  was  asked  to  await  the  doctor's  return. 
Leonidas  found  much  to  interest  him  in  retrospect 
and  surroundings,  and  an  hour  elapsed  before  the 
doctor  appeared. 

Dr.  Demster  was  known  to  be  rich.  The  lum 
ber  and  shingle  industry  had  been  very  remunera 
tive,  and  he  was  deep  in  this  business  when  the 
profits  were  largest.  Now  that  the  nation  was 
plunged  into  a  civil  war,  and  the  Government  was 
paying  fabulous  prices  in  lumber  contracts,  the  pro 
ceeds  were  out  of  proportion  to  the  amount  of  in 
vestment.  He  practiced  his  profession  because  of 
his  fondness  for  it,  and  for  the  relief  he  might  af 
ford  the  suffering  within  his  reach,  but  not  for  the 
income  it  furnished. 

There  were  no  indications  of  wealth  in  the  life 
of  this  man,  but  the  people  knew  of  the  extent  of 
his  large  and  paying  business.  They  were  aware 
that  he  owned  mills  to  convert  the  Dismal  Swamp 
trees  into  lumber,  and  that  he  had  hundreds  of 
men,  white  and  black,  working  early  and  late  in 


DR.  DEMSTER 


DR.  DEMSTER  81 

the  manufacture  of  shingles ;  and  that  his  own  ves 
sels  transported  these  products  to  the  markets  of 
the  world.  But  where  his  great  income  was  depos 
ited  no  one  could  tell.  He  did  not  use  it  on  his 
home,  for  this  had  long  since  become  shabby  and 
dilapidated.  To  judge  from  appearances,  he  would 
have  been  rated  as  one  of  the  poorest,  rather  than 
the  richest  man  in  the  Dismal  Swamp  region  of 
Virginia. 

He  was  known  to  have  no  confidence  in  the 
banks  of  his  day,  and  as  he  did  not  deposit  his 
money  in  them  it  gave  rise  to  many  speculations  as 
to  what  disposition  he  made  of  it.  Some  said  he 
hid  it  away  in  his  old  house,  and  that  he  allowed 
his  home  to  run  down  in  appearance  to  discredit 
this  fact,  and  others  declared  that  he  buried  it  in 
the  woods,  as  rich  men  were  known  to  do  in  Tide 
water  before  the  days  of  the  banks. 

His  appearance  was  that  of  a  man  who  was  dis 
satisfied  and  unhappy  in  life.  He  never  cultivated 
the  acquaintance  of  the  village  folk,  and  on  more 
than  one  occasion  had  indicated  his  desire  to  be  let 
alone.  When  compelled  to  meet  the  neighbors  he 
passed  but  few  words,  and  soon  dispatched  his  busi 
ness.  In  his  professional  calls  he  diagnosed  the 
case,  gave  brief  direction  and  departed  as  soon  as 
possible.  His  peculiarities  led  the  people  to  avoid 
him,  except  when  there  was  sickness  in  the  commu 
nity,  when  he  was  speedily  sought.  Everybody  had 
confidence  in  his  skill  and  trusted  his  judgment; 
but  the  village  folk  all  agreed  that  Dr.  Demster 
was  a  queer  old  man. 


82  IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

In  the  evening,  about  the  hour  of  sunset,  he  often 
strolled  through  the  thicket  behind  his  house  and 
wandered  down  by  the  creek  which  ran  lazily  by 
the  village,  or  sat  beneath  the  weeping  willow  which 
dipped  the  tips  of  its  branches  in  the  sluggish 
stream.  As  he  walked,  with  his  shoulders  drooped, 
his  head  bowed,  with  his  chin  resting  on  his  breast, 
his  long,  white  hair  and  beard  mingling  at  the  sides 
of  his  face,  and  his  arms  crossed  behind  him,  the 
people  watched  and  wondered.  And  as  he  sat  un 
der  the  willow — an  appropriate  place  for  one  so 
sad — now  and  then,  slowly  tossing  chips  of  bark 
into  the  water,  and  watching  them  drift  away  with 
the  tide,  they  shook  their  heads  in  surmise. 

Dr.  Demster's  house  stood  at  the  intersection  of 
the  two  streets,  and  was  the  most  imposing  struct 
ure  in  the  village.  It  was  by  no  means  a  plain 
building,  though  built  in  this  obscure  town,  and  was 
covered  with  weatherboards  every  strip  of  which 
was  beaded,  and  there  were  moldings  of  exquisite 
design. 

The  office  was  not  tidy  in  appearance.  The  heavy 
moldings  at  the  corners,  where  the  wall  and  ceil 
ing  came  together,  had  grown  gray  with  age,  as 
they  had  not  been  painted  or  cleaned  in  many  years. 
The  chairs  were  of  colonial  style,  but  as  much  soiled 
with  dirt  and  grease  as  the  other  furniture.  The 
upholstering  had  long  since  been  torn  away,  and 
rough  cypress  boards  had  been  nailed  in  the  bot 
toms,  so  they  might  still  be  put  to  the  use  for  which 
they  were  intended.  An  old  sofa  stood  diagonally 
across  the  southeast  corner  of  the  room,  and  its 


DR.  DEMSTER  83 

sharp  ends  had  been  jammed  against  the  wall  so 
often  that  not  only  the  plastering  had  been  dis 
lodged,  but  the  laths  were  broken,  and  stuck  out 
in  splinters  in  every  direction,  reminding  one  of  a 
retreating  porcupine.  Before  the  sofa  stood  a  tall 
clock  of  peculiar  design,  which  told  not  only  the 
hour,  but  the  day  of  the  week  and  month,  and  reg 
istered  the  different  phases  of  the  moon,  and  indi 
cated  flow  of  the  tides.  A  rickety  table  supported 
a  few  medical  books  and  papers. 

In  one  corner  stood  a  box  made  of  rough  white- 
oak  lumber,  and  fastened  in  it  with  crude  wire 
staples,  and  standing  in  an  erect  position,  were  the 
bones  of  a  tall  man.  The  skeleton  was  in  a  perfect 
state  of  preservation.  The  large,  white  teeth 
grinned  hideously,  and  some  patches  of  kinky  black 
hair  still  adhered  to  the  skull.  Pasted  on  the 
frontal  bone  was  a  slip  of  paper  on  which  the  fol 
lowing  was  plainly  written : 

"These  are  the  bones  of  the  slave,  Pompey,  who 
once  belonged  to  Gabriel  Arnold.  The  negro  ran 
away  from  Briarcrest  in  hopes  of  escaping  to  the 
swamp.  He  was  pursued  by  Arnold's  bloodhounds, 
overtaken  and  killed  by  the  dogs  near  Culpepper 
Island.  Here  his  body  lay  until  the  flesh  had 
been  consumed  by  birds  of  prey.  Oct.  15,  1860,  I 
found  the  skeleton  and  identified  it  as  the  remains 
of  Pompey.  DEMSTER." 

After  gazing  about  the  office  Leonidas  crossed 
the  room  and  again  stood  in  front  of  Pompey's 
bones  to  study  them  more  closely.  At  the  skele 
ton's  feet  he  perceived  a  small  chest  with  cover 


84  IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

raised,  disclosing  a  quantity  of  gold  coins  of  several 
denominations.  He  saw  that  the  doctor  had  re 
moved  the  tin  chest  and  money  from  behind  a  se 
cret  door  in  the  back  of  the  large  box,  and  had  in 
advertently  left  the  door  open  and  the  chest  at  the 
skeleton's  feet,  so  that  the  secret  recess  as  well  as 
the  gold  was  exposed  to  view. 

Leonidas  instinctively  put  his  hand  in  his  trouser's 
pocket  and  found  only  the  French  medal.  He 
knew  he  had  no  money,  as  he  had  given  the  last 
for  his  night's  lodging  at  the  tavern.  He  thought 
of  the  future,  and  wondered  how  he  could  meet  the 
demands  to  be  made  upon  him.  The  way  ahead 
was  dark,  and  there  seemed  no  reason  why  Dr. 
Demster  should  favor  him  in  any  way. 

"What  shall  I  do?"  he  whispered,  half  aloud,  "I 
am  without  means.  Demands  will  be  made  upon 
me,  and  I  have  no  work.  What  shall  I  do?  Shall 
— I — ta — ?  No — I  can't.  I  have  given  up  much 
for  conscience's  sake,  but  I  shall  at  least  retain  my 
honor.  What  folly  not  to  trust!  I  have  nothing 
of  this  world,  but  I'll  be  true,  and  I'll  tell  the  doc 
tor  when  he  comes." 

Leonidas  walked  resolutely  away  from  the  gold 
and  again  sat  at  the  table  to  await  the  doctor.  He 
had  examined  the  box  of  instruments,  and  recog 
nized  some  of  them  as  those  used  at  the  tavern  in 
dressing  Ezra's  wound.  He  was  reading  a  work 
on  anatomy  when  the  doctor  pushed  aside  a  faded 
curtain,  that  separated  the  office  from  the  kitchen, 
and  put  his  hand  on  the  young  man's  shoulder  to 
attract  his  attention. 


DR.  DEMSTER  85 

"I  see  you  are  here  before  me,"  said  he,  taking 
the  chair  by  Leonidas.  "How  long  have  you 
waited  ?" 

"About  an  hour,"  answered  Leonidas,  and  with 
out  delay  called  the  doctor's  attention  to  the  gold 
in  the  little  tin  chest. 

"Well,  my  boy,  you  are  honest,  to  say  the  least 
of  it." 

"I  hope  always  to  be  honest,"  said  Leonidas, 
simply. 

Nothing  more  was  said  about  the  gold,  but  it 
was  evident  that  the  incident  had  made  a  favorable 
impression  on  the  old  doctor's  mind. 

"You  have  been  here  an  hour,"  said  the  doctor, 
"but  you  seem  interested." 

"Yes,  you  have  many  things  of  interest,"  an 
swered  Leonidas.  "The  time  spent  has  been 
greatly  entertaining." 

"What  attracted  you  most?"  questioned  the  doc 
tor,  suspecting  what  the  young  man  would  answer. 

"By  all  odds,  that,"  Leonidas  quickly  explained, 
pointing  to  the  skeleton. 

"Ha!  Ha!"  shouted  the  doctor.  "I  should 
like  to  know  what  there  is  of  so  much  interest  in  a 
negro's  bones?" 

"It  is  not  so  much  that  they  are  the  bones  of  a 
negro,  as  that  they  are  the  bones  of  a  certain  ne 
gro,  and  that  he  came  to  his  death  in  a  particular 
way,  that  interests  me,"  said  Leonidas.  "While  I 
have  lived  within  a  few  miles  of  this  place  all  my 
life,  and  have  heard  a  great  deal  about  the  'runa 
ways'  in  Dismal  Swamp,  and  how  they  are  often 


86  IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

pursued  by  the  bloodhounds  and  devoured  before 
help  can  reach  them,  I  have  never  before  realized 
the  fact  so  vividly." 

"Yes,  he  was  one  of  Gabriel  Arnold's  negroes, 
and  the  case  is  just  as  you  see  on  the  label,"  ex 
plained  the  doctor.  "Arnold  was  so  cruel  to  his 
slaves,  that  now  and  then  one  of  them  would  seize 
a  chance  to  run  away.  Pompey  was  the  last  to  at 
tempt  it,  and  made  for  the  swamp,  but  the  dogs 
overtook  him  near  Culpepper  Island,  and  that  was 
the  end  of  him.  I  secured  his  bones,  thinking  they 
might  be  of  interest  to  people  who  do  not  know  so 
much  about  how  negroes  are  run  down  as  those 
who  live  near  Dismal  Swamp." 

"You  can't  imagine  how  interesting  that  is  to 
me.  This  indicates  that  Mr.  Arnold  is  not  very 
humane,  if  he  treats  his  slaves  so  cruelly  that  they 
watch  for  a  chance  to  escape.  What  sort  of  man  is 
Mr.  Arnold,  Doctor?"  asked  Leonidas,  abruptly, 
hoping  the  question  would  not  make  an  unfavorable 
impression  on  the  doctor,  though  it  seemed  a  trifle 
impertinent. 

"Very  humane!  I  should  say  not,"  the  doctor 
answered  emphatically,  not  noting  any  impropriety 
in  the  question.  "Nobody  knows  just  what's  the 
matter  with  him,  but  there's  something  wrong,  and 
he  does  not  wish  to  have  dealings  with  many  peo 
ple  lately.  Yes,  a  great  change  has  come  over  Ar 
nold,  and  nobody  can  account  for  it  with  any  de 
gree  of  certainty." 

"You  don't  think  Mr.  Arnold  has  done  some 
thing  he  wishes  to  hide,  do  you,  Doctor?"  asked 


DR.  DEMSTER  87 

Leonidas.  "I  suppose  he  doesn't  care  particularly 
about  the  killing  of  Pompey  by  the  dogs,  for,  as 
you  say,  that  is  a  common  occurrence.  Do  you 
think  there  is  something  else  on  his  mind?" 

"I  am  afraid  there  is,"  was  the  doctor's  deliber 
ate  reply.  "From  what  I  hear,  and  from  what  I 
have  observed,  it  seems  to  me  that  Gabriel  Arnold 
is  burdened  with  some  great  secret.  Of  course,  I 
do  not  know,  and  would  not  like  to  say  positively, 
but  that  is  my  belief;  and  I  fear,  whatever  it  is, 
it  is  affecting  him,  and  will  do  so  as  long  as  he 
lives.  I  think  that  he  has  done  something  he  would 
be  glad  to  undo." 

Leonidas  instantly  recalled  what  he  had  heard 
from  other  sources.  Uncle  Zeke  certainly  had  in 
formation  concerning  Gabriel  Arnold,  which  he 
was  not  willing  to  communicate;  and  the  young 
man  under  the  tavern  window  had  said  something 
about  him  that  was  far-reaching  in  its  meaning; 
and  now  here  Dr.  Demster  had  affirmed  that  old 
Arnold  was  burdened  with  some  great  secret  which 
he  dared  not  tell. 

"What's  the  matter,  young  man?  Are  you  lis 
tening?"  demanded  the  doctor. 

"I  assure  you  I  am  listening,  Doctor;  and  I  am 
deeply  interested  as  well,"  protested  Leonidas.  "I 
should  be  only  too  glad  to  hear  all  about  it.  Yes, 
I  am  more  than  interested." 

"O,  I  don't  know  anything,  but  it  appears  to 
me  that  Gabriel  Arnold  is  carrying  a  burden  he 
would  like  for  some  one  else  to  have,"  said  the 
doctor,  as  he  turned  to  walk  back  to  the  chair,  and 


88  IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

sat  down  with  his  arms  thrown  carelessly  across 
the  table. 

"Do  you  think  Mr.  Arnold  has  committed  some 
great  crime?"  persisted  Leonidas. 

"It  would  seem  so,"  said  the  doctor,  "but,  of 
course,  no  one  can  tell.  Persons  are  very  strange 
ly  and  greatly  affected,  sometimes  from  very 
trifling  causes.  Slight  things  have  been  known  to 
prey  upon  the  mind  and  the  person  become  a  mono 
maniac,  and,  from  this  state  of  insanity,  to  go 
stark  mad.  But  what  have  you  to  do  with  Ga 
briel  Arnold  ?  You  came  to  consult  me  profession 
ally.  What  is  your  trouble?  Let  me  see:  Your 
pulse  is  thumping  away  as  a  well  man's  should. 
Besides,  your  complexion  is  first  class,  and  your 
eye  is  as  clear  as  the  sun.  There  is  nothing  the 
matter  with  you,  as  far  as  I  can  see.  Why  did 
you  come  to  consult  me?" 

"The  fact  is,  Doctor,  I  came  to  consult  you  about 
an  entirely  different  matter,"  admitted  Leonidas. 
"I  need  a  friend  to  advise,  and,  if  possible,  help 
me.  I  stand  alone  at  present.  There  has  arisen 
an  emergency  in  my  life,  and  I'm  at  the  forks  of 
the  road,  so  to  speak,  where  it  is  very  easy  to  go 
in  the  wrong  direction.  I've  come  to  you,  believ 
ing  that  you  are  the  friend  who  will  help  me  with 
advice." 

"Well,  my  boy,'  answered  the  doctor,  heartily, 
"you  know  advice  is  cheap,  but  before  I  can  ad 
vise,  you  must  tell  what  the  trouble  is.  You  look 
to  be  about  twenty,  and  that  is  the  critical  period 
in  the  life  of  every  young  man,  but  what  is  the 


DR.  DEMSTER  89 

special  experience  through  which  you  are  passing 
now?    Speak  freely." 

The  old  doctor  ran  his  fingers  through  his  long 
white  hair,  placed  his  elbow  upon  the  table,  and 
resting  his  head  in  his  hand,  gazed  at  his  young 
companion  who  had  so  favorably  impressed  him, 
eager  to  hear  what  he  had  to  say. 


CHAPTER  XI 
LEONIDAS  MAKES  A  FRIEND 

LEONIDAS  related  his  story  of  the  variance  be 
tween  his  father  and  himself,  and  how  his  father 
had  commanded  him  to  change  his  opinions,  or 
leave  home. 

"Doctor,  the  conviction  is  growing  within  me 
that  to  make  the  distinction  between  people  that 
my  father  insists  upon  is  wicked.  Certain  am  I, 
that  it  is  not  in  harmony  with  the  Sermon  on  the 
Mount.  To  entertain  just  opinions  on  the  rights  of 
men,  and  to  treat  all  properly,  becomes  a  matter 
of  serious  moment  with  me,  for  I  do  not  think  a 
person  can  live  the  Christ-life  without  it." 

"Then  it  is  your  religion?"  inquired  the  doctor, 

"My  religion  insists  upon  it,"  replied  Leonidas, 
"and  I  fully  believe  when  this  unchristian  distinc 
tion  is  obliterated,  and  people  are  estimated  at  their 
real  worth,  the  world  will  be  a  great  deal  happier 
than  it  is  at  present.  I  believe,  further,  that  unless 
the  people  conform  more  nearly  to  the  teaching  of 
Christ  the  chasm  between  the  classes  will  widen, 
and  we  may  look  for  perilous  times  in  the  future. 
I  know  the  present  war  is  absorbing  the  attention 
of  the  nation,  and  little  or  no  thought  is  given  to 
the  social  problem,  but  the  war  will  soon  end,  and 
the  social  problem  will  not  be  solved,  and  the  rich 
will  continue  to  despise  the  poor." 


LEONIDAS  MAKES  A  FRIEND  91 

"What  then?"  asked  the  doctor,  in  a  non-com 
mittal  tone. 

"I  fear  they  will  oppress  them,  too,"  continued 
Leonidas,  "until  the  poor  will  become  exasperated 
and  resent  the  injustice.  No  one  can  predict  where 
the  trouble  will  end." 

"So  your  sympathies  go  with  the  poor  in  the 
struggle  of  life,"  said  the  doctor,  "and  you  sym 
pathize  with  them  because  it  is  religious  to  do  so. 
Is  this  it?" 

"No,"  said  Leonidas,  "not  because  it  is  religious 
to  do  so,  but  because  it  is  right.  It  is,  of  course, 
a  point  of  religion,  and  is  set  forth  in  the  Scrip 
tures,  and  certainly  was  exemplified  in  the  life  of 
Jesus  Christ." 

"Have  you  considered  what  you  sacrifice  in  leav 
ing  home?"  asked  the  doctor.  "You  know  your 
father  is  rich." 

"Yes,  I  know  it  all,  Doctor.  I  know  exactly 
what  it  means." 

"And  still  you  left?"  exclaimed  the  doctor, 
"What  compensation  have  you  for  leaving?" 

"A  good  conscience,"  replied  Leonidas,  with 
emphasis.  "This,  I  think,  is  more  to  be  desired 
than  my  father's  fortune.  I  cannot  have  both. 
There  was  principle  involved.  To  surrender  my 
opinions  simply  for  a  money  consideration  would 
be  the  sacrifice  of  my  self-respect,  and  conscience, 
too." 

Dr.  Demster  had  become  more  and  more  inter 
ested  as  the  conversation  proceeded.  The  young 
man  had  attracted  him  to  a  degree  which  he  had 


92  IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

not  felt  toward  anyone  for  years.  He  arose  from 
his  chair,  walked  slowly  across  the  floor  several 
times,  his  head  bowed,  and  hands  behind  him,  med 
itating  upon  what  had  been  disclosed  in  the  con 
versation.  He  paused  for  a  moment  in  the  corner 
of  the  room  facing  the  skeleton,  then,  turning,  he 
walked  quickly  to  where  Leonidas  was  sitting. 
Struck  by  a  new  idea,  that  perchance  there  was  yet 
some  fact  that  the  young  man  had  concealed,  or 
at  least  had  not  revealed,  he  asked  in  a  suggestive 
tone  of  voice: 

"Is  that  all?  Is  that  the  only  reason  why  your 
father  has  turned  you  out?  Is  there  anything 
connected  with  it  that  you  have  not  told  me?  You 
have  been  so  candid  about  it,  that  I  shall  accept 
your  statement,  if  you  say  that  is  all." 

"No,"  said  Leonidas,  without  hesitation,  "that 
is  not  all.  There  is  still  another  matter  connected 
with  it,  which  was  the  other  of  the  two  reasons  my 
father  assigned  for  his  decision.  It  has  been  my 
purpose  all  the  while  to  tell  you  about  this  as  well 
as  the  other." 

"But  what  is  the  other  reason?  It  may  be  the 
real  cause,  after  all,"  said  the  doctor,  as  he  took 
his  place  quickly  in  the  chair  again. 

"It  concerns  a  young  woman  whose  reputation 
and—" 

"By  the  Eternal!"  interrupted  the  doctor;  "a 
woman  in  the  case.  Well,  well,  well!  Have  you 
been  running  after  some  questionable  female,  and 
for  this  your  father  has  driven  you  out?" 

"No,  Doctor;  don't  judge  me  too  quickly,  and 


LEONIDAS  MAKES  A  FRIEND  93 

I  pray  you  do  not  have  a  suggestive  thought  about 
the  character  of  the  woman  whose  name  and  in 
terest  are  involved,  for  I  assure  you  she  is  as  inno 
cent  as  an  angel,  and  was  more  surprised  when 
she  learned  of  her  connection  with  the  matter  than 
you  seem  to  be  now." 

After  telling  the  story  of  Isabel  Proctor's  connec 
tion  with  his  life,  Leonidas  continued:  "Father 
fears  that  I  love  her,  and  he  is  not  willing,  as  he 
expressed  it,  to  have  a  poor  servant  girl  enter  his 
home  as  a  daughter-in-law." 

"You  say  it  was  a  poor,  but  good  girl?"  asked 
the  doctor,  with  interest  and  animation  in  every 
tone. 

"Yes,  poor,  but  a  perfect  angel  on  earth,"  an 
swered  Leonidas,  "as  I  have  learned  lately,  though 
I  did  not  know  so  much  about  her  when  my  father 
found  occasion  to  object  to  her." 

"Who  is  she?  May  I  ask?  Though  I  suppose 
this  makes  no  difference,  and  is  none  of  my  busi 
ness." 

"I  want  you  to  know,"  responded  Leonidas, 
quickly,  though  he  felt  a  trifle  concerned,  lest  the 
mention  of  Isabel's  name  might  precipitate  a  ques 
tion  which  he  was  not  quite  ready  to  answer.  "Her 
name  is  Isabel  Proctor." 

"Isabel  Proctor,  Isabel  Proctor,"  muttered  the 
old  physician,  as  if  to  recall  some  memory;  "Isabel 
Proctor — why  she's  Gabriel  Arnold's  niece.  Is  that 
the  girl  you  mean?" 

"Yes,  Doctor,"  answered  Leonidas,  "it  is  Isa 
bel  Proctor,  Mr.  Arnold's  niece,  on  whose  account, 


94  IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

partially,  I'm  away  from  home.  When  father  saw 
me  talking  with  her,  he  assumed  that  I  was  becom 
ing  intimate  with  a  poor  girl,  and  forbade  my  ever 
speaking  to  her  again.  I  could  see  no  reason  for 
this  prohibition  and  I  refused  to  comply  with  his 
demand.  So  far  as  I've  ever  heard,  Miss  Proctor 
is  a  young  woman  of  good  character,  though  she 
is  poor.  Why  should  I  avoid  her  simply  because 
the  difference  between  us  can  be  removed  with 
money?  To  my  mind,  good  character  is  the  all- 
important  thing,  and  this,  I  believe,  Miss  Proctor 
possesses.  If  she  were  a  person  of  questionable 
character,  I  should  avoid  her  as  I  would  a  viper; 
or  if  there  were  a  breath  of  suspicion  concerning 
her  reputation,  I  should  hesitate  a  long  while  be 
fore  permitting  any  more  than  a  speaking  ac 
quaintance.  I  see  no  reason  why  there  should  be 
an  embargo  placed  upon  any  relation  between  Miss 
Proctor  and  me,  and,  since  I  have  come  to  know 
her,  I  don't  propose  that  there  shall  be." 

"I  suppose,"  said  the  doctor,  after  a  short  si 
lence,  "you  intended  to  leave  home  rather  than  sur 
render  your  principles,  and  the  matter  of  your  re 
lation  with  the  Proctor  girl  was  of  minor  impor 
tance.  What  would  you  have  decided  as  between 
the  girl  and  your  home  and  future  fortune?" 

"I  should  have  decided  just  as  I  have  done,  for 
I  have  no  patience  with  the  spirit  of  my  father  and 
that  of  the  remainder  of  the  Darwood  family.  They 
and  some  of  the  self-styled  first  families  of  Vir 
ginia  look  with  contempt  upon  poor  people,  as  not 
worthy  of  their  notice,  and  would  not,  in  any  cir- 


LEONIDAS  MAKES  A  FRIEND  95 

cumstances,  associate  with  those  out  of  their  class. 
This,  I  consider,  is  not  in  keeping  with  the  spirit 
of  Jesus  of  Nazareth.  If  there  were  any  discrim 
ination  at  all,  it  seemed  to  have  been  in  favor  of 
the  poor.  I  think  there  was  no  difference  with  the 
Great  Teacher,  and  I  have  no  right  to  make  any." 

"And  this  is  a  part  of  your  religion;  is  it?"  asked 
the  doctor,  again  growing  animated,  and  leaning 
forward. 

"Yes,  and  it  appears  to  me  to  be  the  chief  need 
of  the  world,"  said  Leonidas. 

"My  boy,  is  there  nothing  more  than  that  in  your 
relation  with  the  Proctor  girl  ?" 

"Well,  yes,  Doctor,"  admitted  Leonidas,  "there 
is  now,  but  there  was  not  when  I  left  home.  The 
motives  that  I  have  mentioned  are  the  only  ones 
that  influenced  me  in  my  decision.  When  the 
trouble  occurred  Isabel  Proctor  was  no  more  to  me 
than  any  other  young  woman,  and  so  my  decision 
was  made  in  a  general  way,  and  if  it  had  involved 
any  other  person  I  should  not  have  acted  differ 
ently." 

"Is  Isabel  Proctor  more  to  you  than  any  other 
girl  now?"  inquired  the  doctor.  "You  are  quite 
young  yet,  my  boy." 

"She  is  more  than  anyone  else,  Doctor." 

"You  are,  then,  in  love,"  said  the  old  physician. 

"You  may  call  it.  what  you  like,  but  my  fondness 
for  Isabel  Proctor  has  in  the  last  few  days  become 
very  great.  Yes,  Doctor;  I'm  in  love,  I  suppose," 
admitted  the  young  man,  blushing  and  moving 
nervously  under  the  scrutiny  of  penetrating  eyes. 


96  IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

The  old  physician  paused  for  a  moment,  and  ap 
peared  to  be  turning  some  thought  over  in  his 
mind,  his  neck  craned,  so  that  his  head  lay  nearly 
upon  his  shoulder,  meanwhile  tapping  on  the  table 
with  the  ends  of  his  fingers. 

"My  boy,"  said  the  old  doctor,  suddenly  aroused 
from  his  thoughtful  attitude,  "all  you  have  said 
and  done  is  just  as  it  should  be.  To  my  mind,  it 
is  beyond  criticism;  but  does  it  not  occur  to  you 
that  to  allow  yourself  to  think  seriously  of  the 
Proctor  girl  will  necessitate  your  crossing  the 
path  of  Gabriel  Arnold  ?  He  is  a  very  wicked  man, 
and  the  less  you  have  to  do  with  him  the  better.  If 
you  determine  to  woo  and  win  the  girl,  be  careful 
of  her  uncle,  for  there  is  no  telling  what  desperate 
thing  he  will  do." 

"Since  the  night  of  the  big  storm  my  suspicion 
has  been  aroused,"  answered  Leonidas.  "He  may 
be  wicked,  and  may  wish  to  defeat  my  purpose, 
but  still  I  don't  think  he  will  succeed." 

"What  has  aroused  your  suspicion?  Has  anyone 
told  you  of  some  specific  act  committed  by  Ar 
nold?" 

"The  old  slave  knows  something  about  Mr.  Ar 
nold  which  he  doesn't  care  to  tell,  and  whenever 
he  even  thinks  about  it  he  becomes  greatly  excited. 
There  certainly  is  some  secret  between  them,"  ex 
plained  Leonidas. 

"Is  that  all?"  questioned  the  doctor,  determined 
to  understand  the  matter  fully. 

"When  I  left  Uncle  Zeke  he  cautioned  me  about 
going  through  the  pine  woods  at  Briarcrest,  and 


LEONIDAS  MAKES  A  FRIEND  97 

made  much  of  the  branch,  and  a  big  pine  tree.  The 
old  man  declares  he  has  seen  in  the  woods  a  ghost 
which  sits  under  the  big  pine  tree  holding  its  hand 
to  its  head.  I  have  reason  to  think  it  was  under 
that  very  tree  that  I  found  this,"  responded  Le- 
onidas,  taking  the  French  medal  from  his  pocket 
and  handing  it  to  the  doctor. 


CHAPTER  XII 
THE  DOCTOR'S  STORY 

"NAPOLEON  III!"  exclaimed  the  doctor,  his  eyes 
flashing  as  he  looked  at  the  profile  of  the  Emperor 
on  the  medal.  "Legion  of  Honor,  eh !  I'd  be  will 
ing  to  pay  a  forfeit  if  I  couldn't  guess  to  whom  it 
belonged." 

"There  is  an  inscription  on  it  in  French,  and  you 
may  be  able  to  translate  more  of  it  than  I  can,  but 
even  the  name  on  it  aroused  my  curiosity  when  I 
discovered  it." 

The  doctor  turned  the  medal  over  and  read 
aloud : 

"Awarded  to  Comte  de  Bussy  for  gallant  serv 
ices  at  Magenta  and  Solferino  in  the  year  of  grace 
1859." 

"Why  it's  no  trouble  for  you  to  read  it,"  re 
marked  Leonidas,  "and  I  am  glad  I  showed  it  to 
you,  as  I  have  wondered  about  the  significance  of 
the  inscription." 

"O,  yes,  I  can  read  French,"  said  the  doctor, 
smiling  at  the  young  man,  "but  I  deserve  no  spe 
cial  credit  for  that.  I,  myself,  am  French  by  birth, 
and,  of  course,  everything  from  that  country  or 
language  interests  me  greatly,  and — " 

"Are   you    French?     You    French!"    exclaimed 


THE  DOCTOR'S  STORY  99 

Leonidas  in  surprise.  "Strange  I  never  heard  that 
before." 

"That  is  my  secret,"  said  the  doctor,  after  a  mo 
ment's  pause,  "and  there  are  other  facts  about  me 
not  known  here,  but  I  will  tell  you  this  now.  My 
father  was  implicated  in  the  French  Revolution, 
and  took  a  prominent  part  during  the  Reign  of 
Terror.  At  first  he  became  a  Revolutionist,  and 
was  allied  with  Robespierre,  Danton  and  Marat. 
But  these  men  went  further  in  their  wickedness 
and  slaughter  than  he  dreamed  they  would,  at  the 
outbreak  of  the  Revolution,  and  he  believed,  for  the 
good  of  France,  they,  themselves,  should  go  to  the 
guillotine.  My  father  made  an  effort  to  retrace 
his  steps  and  undo  what  he  had  done.  He  pre 
ferred  the  kings  and  the  feudal  system  to  the  up 
heaval  produced  by  these  three  leaders  of  the  Revo 
lutionists. 

"He  used  to  entertain  me,  when  I  was  a  boy, 
by  telling  me  of  his  thrilling  experiences  during 
those  trying  days.  He  told  me  that  he  furnished 
the  knife  to  Charlotte  Cor  day  with  which  she  as 
sassinated  Marat,  and  that  he  had  something  to  do 
with  the  plot  that  ended  in  Danton's  humiliation, 
and  was  present  when  he  mounted  the  scaffold. 
Once  I  asked  him  what  he  himself  did,  but  this 
was  a  part  of  his  life  he  would  never  tell  me.  He 
said  he  saw  Robespierre  in  mortal  terror  when  he 
was  led  to  the  guillotine,  and  was  standing  near 
when  his  head  dropped  into  the  basket. 

"When  this  man  was  approaching  the  end  my 
father  led  in  the  cry,  'Down  with  the  tyrant !'  This 


ioo         IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

practically  ended  the  Reign  of  Terror,  but  still  my 
father  felt  insecure,  and  escaped  to  America  under 
the  assumed  name  of  Demster.  By  this  name  I 
have  always  been  known.  My  real  name  is  De 
Verrier.  After  quiet  was  partially  restored  father 
returned  to  France,  leaving  my  mother  and  me  in 
America.  Mother  died  after  a  while,  and  left  me 
to  battle  with  the  world  alone.  When  he  returned 
to  France  my  father  allied  hemself  with  Napoelon 
and  was  one  of  the  foremost  leaders  of  his  select 
men.  He  fought  in  many  battles,  and  was  side  by 
side  with  de  Bussy  at  Friedland,  Luxembourg  and 
Verdun.  I  mean,  of  course,  the  young  Count's 
father. 

"This  was  while  I  was  young,  but  you  can  see 
why  I  am  interested  in  everything  French,  and  why 
it  is  natural  for  me  to  read  the  language.  Of  course, 
the  sight  of  that  medal  awakens  a  thousand  recol 
lections  of  the  exciting  days  of  my  childhood,  but 
it  also  stirs  me  greatly  over  what  has  occurred  of 
late.  You  see  why  anything  with  Count  de  Bussy's 
name  on  it  would  interest  me." 

"Yes,"  answered  Leonidas,  "but  what  signifi 
cance  has  the  medal  ?" 

"It  is  a  mark  of  distinction  even  to  own  such  a 
medal,"  continued  the  doctor.  "This  one,  as  the 
inscription  indicates,  belongs  to  Count  de  Bussy, 
and  was  presented  to  him  for  his  heroic  service  for 
the  Emperor's  cause  in  Italy.  Magenta  and  Sol- 
ferino  tell  the  whole  story.  I  am  interested  in  de 
Bussy,  because  of  his  father's  relation  to  my  father 
in  the  great  Napoleon's  battles,  but  your  finding 


THE  DOCTOR'S  STORY  101 

the  medal  in  the  pine  woods  at  Briarcrest  under 
the  big  tree  is  of  more  interest  still,  and  is  forcing 
my  mind  to  an  inevitable  conclusion,  much  as  I  re 
gret  to  entertain  it.  But  what  is  this  spot  on  the 
ribbon?" 

"What  is  it,  Doctor?  It  attracted  my  attention 
soon  after  I  found  it,  and  I  have  wondered  ever 
since  what  it  is,  and  why  it  is  there." 

The  old  physician  took  the  medal,  detached  the 
ribbon,  and  placed  it  under  a  microscope.  He 
looked  for  a  moment,  then  turned  suddenly  and 
walked  across  the  floor,  exclaiming  excitedly, 
"W-e-e-e-11,  by  the  Eternal  Justice!" 

"What  is  it?"  Leonidas  demanded,  with  in 
creased  interest.  "What  is  it?" 

"Iron  rust,  or  the  stain  from  the  leaves  of  some 
forest  tree  containing  hemoglobine,  or  blood,"  said 
the  doctor,  looking  directly  at  Leonidas  and 
shaking  his  head  ominously. 

The  old  man  seemed  lost  in  thought,  and  at 
length  young  Darwood,  thinking  he  had  occupied 
too  much  time  already,  arose  to  leave.  He  thanked 
the  doctor  most  cordially  for  the  generous  expres 
sion  of  confidence,  but  felt  that  the  initiative  offer 
of  help  must  come  without  his  suggestion.  He 
stepped  over  to  where  the  doctor  had  placed  him 
self  near  the  great  fireplace  and  took  the  old  man's 
hand  in  both  of  his  own,  saying: 

"Doctor,  I  must  leave  now.  I  hope  to  see  you 
soon  again.  Will  you  be  at  the  tavern  to  see  Ezra 
to-morrow  ?" 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  recovering  his  former  in- 

7 


102         IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

terest,  "but  before  you  go  I  wish  to  tell  you  that  I 
like  you.  Yes,  I  like  you,  and  henceforth  I  shall 
be  your  friend.  You  have  been  so  true  to  your 
convictions,  and  so  just  in  your  treatment  of  others, 
and  so  honest  with  my  gold,  that  I  like  you  as 
I  have  not  liked  anyone  for  many  long  years.  Will 
you  be  my  friend?  I  need  a  friend  worse  than 
you  know.  There  is  an  awful  void  in  my  life  and 
my  heart  aches,  and  has  since  Annie  went  away." 

"Since  Annie  went  away?"  echoed  Leonida<s, 
mentally.  He  then  decided  that  Annie  must  have 
been  some  one  who  had  figured  largely  in  the  old 
man's  early  life,  and  hoped  he  might  hear  more  of 
the  story. 

"My  heart  aches,  and  has  ever  since  my  Annie 
left,  and  I  thought  it  would  always  ache,"  con 
tinued  the  doctor,  "but  all  at  once  you've  come  to 
be  my  friend,  and  fill  the  place  in  my  life.  No,  not 
fill  it,  that  can't  ever  be,  but  if  you  let  me  be  your 
friend,  and  are  my  friend,  you  will,  in  a  measure, 
fill  a  place  in  a  wretched  old  man's  life  that  has  not 
been  filled  for  many  a  long  and  dreary  day.  Will 
you  take  an  old  man,  nearly  in  the  grave,  for  your 
friend?  And  will  you  be  my  friend?  Will  you 
believe  me,  and  trust  me?  I  believe  and  trust  you 
already.  This  is  strange  talk  for  a  rich  old  man 
to  a  boy,  but  since  Annie  went  I  have  yearned,  yes, 
almost  died  for  someone  to  love  and  trust." 

The  doctor  drew  his  hand  from  the  young  man's 
grasp,  and  put  it  on  his  shoulder  for  an  instant,  and, 
looking  into  his  eyes,  said,  "Stay  until  I  return." 

He  passed  into  the  hall  and  up  the  stairs.     His 


THE  DOCTOR'S  STORY  103 

house,  save  his  own  bedroom,  was  empty,  and 
Leonidas  could  hear  his  footsteps  as  he  stalked 
from  one  place  to  another.  He  entered  his  own 
chamber,  and  went  to  the  corner,  near  the  head  of 
his  bed,  to  a  small  closet  built  into  the  wall,  almost 
concealed  from  view.  He  looked  around,  turning 
his  eyes  from  one  side  to  the  other,  and  then 
glanced  under  the  bed.  Satisfied  that  no  one  was 
near,  he  placed  a  small  brass  key  in  the  lock  of  a 
little  door,  which  suddenly  flew  open.  He  took 
from  the  top  shelf  a  mahogany  box,  and  went 
slowly  down,  placing  it  upon  the  table  by  which 
Leonidas  stood. 

He  took  from  the  box  a  number  of  old,  musty 
papers,  and  handled  them  as  if  they  were  of  no 
special  value,  though  they  were  deeds,  deeds  of 
trust,  and  notes  of  various  kinds,  representing 
many  thousand  dollars.  He  then  seized  a  package 
of  letters  that  were  of  more  interest,  judging  from 
the  manner  in  which  he  handled  them,  and  laid 
them  upon  the  table,  occasionally  taking  them  up 
in  his  hands,  turning  them  over,  looking  at  them 
affectionately.  Finally  the  doctor  removed  a  small 
thin  package,  which  was  carefully  tied  with  silk 
cord.  Leonidas  saw  at  once  that  this  object,  what 
ever  it  might  be,  was  invested  with  an  interest  that 
nothing  else  in  the  box  possessed. 

As  he  began  to  untie  the  silk  string  the  old  man's 
hands  trembled,  and  he  himself  shook  from  head  to 
foot,  as  if  stirred  by  some  great  emotion.  He  care 
fully  removed  the  covering  and  handed  Leonidas 
the  sacred  contents  of  the  little  package.  It  was  a 


IO4         IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

picture  of  a  sweet,  earnest  young  woman,  with  re 
markably  fine  eyes,  and  was  evidently  painted  by 
the  hand  of  some  master  artist,  inclosed  in  a  frame 
of  exquisite  workmanship,  the  whole  being  not 
more  than  four  inches  wide  and  six  inches  in 
length.  Across  the  lower  right  hand  corner  was 
an  inscription — the  namie  "Annie  Hewlett,"  and 
nothing  more. 

"Doctor,"  said  Leonidas,  after  gazing  at  the 
picture,  "this  is  a  beautiful,  spirituelle  face.  Is  it 
a  likeness  of  some  dear  friend?" 

"More  than  dear  friend,"  said  the  doctor,  and 
his  voice  trembled.  "This  is  what  I  wish  to  tell 
you.  Nobody  here  knows,  but  I  want  you  to 
know,  because  I  love  you,  and  can  trust  you.  That's 
my  Annie.  I  loved  her  when  I  was  a  young  man 
like  you.  I  looked  like  you  then.  My  hair  was 
black,  then,  too.  Everybody  said  I  was  handsome, 
and  they  knew  Annie  was  pretty  and  good.  Annie 
loved  me,  and  one  day,  under  a  big  willow  tree 
she  took  my  hand  in  her  beautiful  white  hands 
and  admitted  it.  Yes,  that's  my  Annie,  and  she 
wanted  to  be  mine  for  good  and  all,  but  they 
wouldn't  let  me  have  her.  No,  they  wouldn't  let 
me  have  my  Annie." 

The  old  man  broke  into  a  flood  of  tears,  then 
in  an  uncontrollable  fit  of  sobbing,  he  threw  his 
head  upon  his  arms  which  lay  folded  upon  the  ta 
ble,  and  between  his  sobs  said :  "That's  my  Annie, 
and  they  wouldn't  let  me  have  her.  They  said  I 
was  poor.  They  watched  her  and  locked  her  in  a 
room." 


THE  DOCTOR'S  STORY  105 

"How  cruel!"  Leonidas  exclaimed. 

The  old  man  forgot  his  grief  for  a  moment  and 
said :  "She  dropped  me  a  note  out  of  the  window." 
He  drew  a  slip  of  paper,  yellow  with  age,  from  the 
package  of  letters,  and  passed  it  to  Leonidas,  who 
read: 

"MY  DEAR  EUSTACE:  I  love  only  you,  and  will 
love  you  forever.  Be  patient.  I  will  be  yours  some 
day.  Your  loving 

ANNIE/' 

"Yes,  she  meant  to  be  mine,  and  she  is  mine ;  but 
when  she  couldn't  see  me  she  turned  pale,  and  sick 
ened  and  died.  This  is  why  I  have  always  lived 
alone.  I  have  had  no  one  to  love  since  Annie  went 
away,"  continued  the  old  man,  as  his  voice  trem 
bled  with  emotion. 

"Your  life  must  have  been  almost  unbearable," 
said  Leonidas,  looking  with  pity  upon  the  old  phy 
sician,  as  the  great  tears  ran  down  his  haggard 
face  to  mingle  with  his  long,  white  beard,  think 
ing  all  the  while  of  the  possible  impediments  that 
might  be  placed  between  him  and  Isabel,  and  won 
dering  if  he,  too,  would  have  a  like  sad  experience. 

The  doctor  arose  from  where  he  was  sitting, 
rubbing  his  hands  together,  and  walked  across  the 
floor,  all  the  while  saying  in  a  subdued  voice :  "My 
Annie,  my  Annie.  They  locked  her  up.  They 
killed  her." 


CHAPTER  XIII 
ARNOLD'S  CASE  is  DIAGNOSED 

ISABEL  sat  at  the  front  window  of  Gabriel  Ar 
nold's  room,  looking  out  upon  the  wreckage  of  the 
previous  night's  storm,  and  meditating  upon  the 
disclosures  made  in  Uncle  Zeke's  cabin.  What  an 
experience!  And  what  revelations  had  been  made! 
Leonidas  had  revealed  his  love  for  her.  He  cer 
tainly  had  expressed  himself  in  most  emphatic 
language;  but  had  she  admitted  her  love  for  him? 
She  had  made  a  great  effort  not  to  do  so,  but  feared 
he  had  read  her  thoughts  and  observed  her  emo 
tion  as  she  had  looked  up  into  his  anxious  face. 

Gabriel  Arnold,  in  haste,  had  thrown  himself 
on  the  bed  without  removing  even  his  topcoat.  He 
was  sleeping,  but  his  sleep  was  broken.  He  tossed 
from  side  to  side,  talking  at  times  of  things  that 
troubled  him,  and  his  mutterings  broke  into  Isa 
bel's  reverie.  She  wondered  what  he  was  saying 
and  what  it  all  portended,  as  she  arose  and  went  to 
his  bedside. 

As  she  was  about  to  speak  to  him  she  observed 
that  he  was  still  sleeping,  though  now  and  again 
he  muttered  disconnected  phrases,  and  at  times 
groaned,  as  though  suffering.  This  distress  seemed 
not  to  be  physical  pain,  but  that  which  was  far 
worse — mental  anguish.  She  stood  by  his  side  and 


ARNOLD'S  CASE  is  DIAGNOSED  107 

watched  the  wild  expression  of  his  countenance. 
He  arose  in  bed  and  lifted  both  hands  as  if  in  the 
act  of  striking  some  one  standing  near  by,  grinding 
his  teeth  tightly  as  he  did  so.  Then  he  brought 
his  hands  down  quickly,  as  if  wielding  a  bludgeon 
in  the  act  of  striking  a  heavy  blow,  saying  fiercely : 

"There,  you  foreign  devil,  take  that!  You  in 
fernal  Frenchman!" 

Isabel  trembled  in  alarm,  and  could  scarcely  re 
sist  the  impulse  to  rush  to  awaken  him  out  of  what 
she  thought  must  be  a  horrible  dream.  She  did 
not,  however,  but  paused  for  what  might  follow. 

Gabriel  Arnold  was  now  sitting  in  an  upright 
position,  with  the  bed  covers  twisted  in  every  con 
ceivable  shape.  He  quickly  lifted  his  hands  and 
clasped  his  head  tightly,  then,  turning,  threw  him 
self  violently  upon  the  pillow,  tossing  from  side  to 
side,  groaning  horribly.  In  his  distress  he  cried 
aloud:  "I've  done  it.  I've  done  it.  What  shall 
I  do !  O,  what  shall  I  do !"  Then,  in  a  pitiful  and 
pleading  tone,  he  addressed  his  old  slave:  "Zeke, 
O,  Zeke,  don't  tell.  Don't  tell  it.  I've  done  it, 
Zeke." 

After  a  brief  silence,  save  as  his  breath  came 
thick  and  heavy,  he  screamed:  "They'll  get  me! 
Save  me.  There  they  come."  Then,  before  Isabel 
could  prevent  him,  he  leaped  from  his  bed,  and 
rushed  madly  across  the  room  toward  the  door, 
with  his  head  turned  backward,  as  though  to  es 
cape  some  one  in  pursuit. 

"Uncle,  uncle!"  said  Isabel,  in  a  commanding 
voice,  as  she  went  quickly  to  where  he  had  pressed 


io8         IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

himself  against  the  door  in  an  attempt  to  open  it 
and  rush  into  the  hall.  "Uncle,  what  can  the  matter 
be?  No  one  is  after  you.  There  is  no  one  in  the 
room  but  me.  You  have  had  a  disagreeable  dream. 
Come  now,  get  back  to  bed,  and  be  calm.  Nobody 
will  hurt  you." 

Isabel  put  her  arm  about  her  uncle's  shoulders, 
as  he  stood  leaning  over  tugging  at  the  door  knob. 
The  touch  of  her  arm  was  the  climax  of  Arnold's 
fear ;  for  at  the  contact  he  screamed  in  great  fright : 
"Ugh,  ugh,  ugh!  They've  got  me.  They've  got 
me.  I'm  caught  at  last.  Zeke!  Zeke!  I  told  you 
not  to  tell." 

"Who's  got  you,  Uncle  Gabriel?"  asked  Isabel 
in  a  steady,  soothing  tone.  "It  is  I.  Don't  you 
know  me?  Is  it  Isabel — your  niece.  No  one  else 
is  here." 

"Isabel,  Isabel,  is  it  really  you,  my  niece?"  de 
manded  Arnold,  as  he  turned  from  the  door,  and 
grabbed  her  by  the  arms  and  shook  her  violently. 
"Is  it  you,  Isabel?  Where  are  they?  Will  they 
come  again?" 

"Whom  do  you  mean,  uncle?"  asked  Isabel,  as 
she  observed  that  he  was  fast  regaining  his  com 
posure.  "There  is  no  one  in  the  room  but  me;  nor 
has  there  been.  Nobody  is  after  you.  What  is  the 
matter?  You  have  had  a  horrible  dream." 

"Y-e-e-e-s,  it  was  a  bad  dream — a  very  bad 
dream." 

Arnold  realized  with  embarrassment  that  he  had 
dreamed,  and  in  the  dream  had  talked  about  the 
matter  that  had  so  disturbed  his  sleep;  and  won- 


ARNOLD'S  CASE  is  DIAGNOSED  109 

dered  if  he  had  said  anything  that  was  calculated 
to  excite  suspicion. 

"What  did  you  dream,  Uncle  Gabriel,  that  so 
frightened  you?" 

"It  was  a  bad  dream — a  very  bad  dream,"  he 
repeated,  feeling  the  horror.  "Did  you  say  they 
were  not  after  me?  Are  you  sure  they  were  not 
here?" 

"No  one  was  here  but  me,"  replied  Isabel,  real 
izing  that  her  uncle's  mind  was  wandering,  "and 
no  one  has  been  in  the  room  since  morning." 

"Are  you  sure  no  one  was  after  me,  Isabel?" 

"No,  Uncle  Gabriel,  no  one  was  after  you;  and 
no  one  has  been  after  you.  Who  would  wish  to 
molest  you,  and  for  what  reason  would  they  come? 
Come,  now,  don't  be  alarmed  about  this  again." 

Though  Isabel  did  her  best  to  console  him  by 
making  little  of  his  dream,  and  though  she  knew 
dreams  might  arise  from  various  causes  and  have 
no  real  significance,  she  could  not  dismiss  the  con 
viction  that  this  disturbing  experience  had  behind 
it  something  more  than  a  disordered  brain.  She 
feared  there  had  been  some  act  committed  that 
formed  the  reason  for  his  peculiarities  when  awake, 
and  restlessness  when  asleep.  What  it  was  she  did 
not  dare  imagine. 

Isabel  led  her  uncle  back  to  bed,  but  there  seemed 
to  be  no  rest  for  him.  He  sat  up  and  looked  around 
him  in  what  seemed  a  dazed  condition.  His  eyes 
were  red  and  wild,  and  there  was  a  nervous  tremor 
in  his  voice. 

"Lock  the  door  and  keep  them  out,"  he  com- 


no         IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

manded.  "Don't  you  hear  them?  They  are  out 
there  now.  They  are  trying  to  come  in.  They'll 
take  me.  O,  lock  the  door.  Quick — hurry — keep 
them  out!" 

To  gratify  her  uncle,  who  she  feared  was  fast 
becoming  deranged,  Isabel  locked  the  door,  and  to 
secure  it  doubly  she  placed  across  it  a  heavy  hick 
ory  bar,  which  had  been  used  as  a  fastening  since 
the  boyhood  of  her  uncle.  Seeing  the  door  locked 
and  barred,  he  felt  more  composed,  and  dropped 
back  on  the  pillow,  sinking  into  a  half-stupid,  half- 
reflective  mood — now  disinclined  to  speak,  except 
occasionally  to  break  the  silence  by  insisting  that 
some  one  was  coming. 

After  reassuring  her  uncle  that  no  one  would  mo 
lest  him,  Isabel  resumed  her  place  at  the  window. 
Her  brain  was  fairly  awhirl  with  reflections.  These 
were  now  not  entirely  of  Leonidas,  and  the  reve 
lations  in  Uncle  Zeke's  cabin,  but,  in  part,  of  her 
uncle,  and  the  meaning  of  the  strange  talk  during 
his  sleep,  and  his  even  stranger  conduct  after 
awaking. 

The  thought  of  Leonidas  was  comforting  to  Isa 
bel,  for  since  going  to  Briarcrest  her  life  had  not 
been  one  of  much  joy.  Her  Uncle  Gabriel  and 
Aunt  Betty  had  been  so  unkind  that  the  poor  girl's 
life  was  exceedingly  unhappy.  But  since  she  had 
met  Leonidas  at  the  myrtle  thicket,  and  more — 
since  he  had  professed  his  love  for  her,  life  had 
been  full  of  meaning  and  promise.  It  was,  in  fact, 
very  different,  but  still  sad. 

It  was  not  at  all  surprising  that  she  spent  her 


ARNOLD'S  CASE  is  DIAGNOSED  in 

moments  of  leisure  meditating  upon  the  new  inter 
est  that  had  come  into  her  life  and  permitting  her 
thoughts  to  dwell  at  times  upon  Leonidas. 

The  thought  of  him  gave  constant  delight,  but 
the  condition  of  her  uncle,  and  the  state  of  mind 
through  which  he  was  passing  on  account  of  the 
unknown  trouble,  alarmed  her.  She  made  repeated 
efforts  to  believe  the  dream  had  no  meaning,  call 
ing  to  mind  many  of  her  own  which  had  no  bearing 
upon  anything  in  her  life  that  had  gone  before,  or 
that  had  come  after. 

Her  uncle  now  lay  in  an  almost  unconscious 
condition,  breathing  heavily. 

Gabriel  Arnold  had  been  unkind  to  her,  it  was 
true,  and  she  knew  he  had  been  wicked  in  a  gener 
al  way,  but  that  he  had  been  guilty  of  any  overt 
act  which  could  be  the  cause  of  such  a  distressing 
dream,  she  could  scarcely  think  possible.  The 
progress  of  the  deed,  judged  by  the  dream,  appeared 
to  be  the  commission  of  an  act,  then  a  regret,  after 
ward  a  fear.  He  had  dreamed  of  striking  some 
foreigner,  upon  whom  a  severe  injury,  if  not  death, 
had  been  inflicted.  Then  at  seeing  the  result  of 
his  act  he  had  groaned  out  his  regret  in  the  agony 
of  repentance.  Finally  the  fear  of  arrest  seemed  to 
have  seized  him  and  he  had  made  a  desperate  ef 
fort  to  escape,  and  fancied  his  pursuers  lingered 
about  him  long  after  he  awoke. 

As  Isabel  looked  out  of  the  window,  longing  for 
some  diversion  from  harrowing  thoughts,  she  ob 
served  in  the  sycamores  a  man  leaning  with  his 
elbow  against  one  of  the  trees  which  bordered  the 


H2         IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

lane  on  both  sides.  His  head  was  resting  against 
his  hand.  He  was  some  distance  away,  and  it  was 
impossible  to  tell  just  who  it  might  be.  Her  first 
thought,  of  course,  was  that  it  might  be  Leonidas, 
but  then  she  decided  this  was  improbable,  as  he 
would  not  likely  stand  there  and  run  the  risk  of 
discovery,  which  he  so  much  feared  before  leaving 
Uncle  Zeke's.  As  she  gazed  longer  she  concluded 
that  the  man  in  the  sycamores  must  be  Leonidas, 
as  his  height  and  the  color  of  his  clothing  corre 
sponded  exactly  with  those  of  her  lover. 

Presently  a  carriage  passed  the  young  man  and 
approached  Gabriel  Arnold's  house.  As  it  did  so 
he  seemed  surprised,  left  the  tree  against  which 
he  was  standing,  and  looked  after  it  as  it  went  up 
the  lane,  and  then  disappeared  in  the  pine  woods 
on  his  right. 

The  carriage  which  had  aroused  Leonidas  from 
his  absorbing  meditations  contained  Dr.  Demster, 
who  was  on  his  way  to  visit  the  strange  patient  at 
Briarcrest.  Accompanying  the  doctor  was  a  young 
officer  named  Joel  Vantine. 

"O,  Doctor,  Doctor,  I'm  so  glad  you've  come," 
cried  Isabel,  as  the  flea-bitten  gray  mare  slowly 
jogged  up  to  the  stile  in  front  of  the  Arnold  home 
stead. 

"What's  the  trouble?"  asked  the  doctor,  kindly, 
as  he  stepped  from  the  carriage  and  looked  stead 
fastly  at  Isabel.  "Is  your  uncle  worse?" 

"Yes,  worse  in  every  way,  and  I  am  troubled 
about  him." 

When  within  the  hall,  and  with  the  door  closed 


ARNOLD'S  CASE  is  DIAGNOSED  113 

behind  them,  Isabel  related  the  occurrence  of  the 
night  before.  She  told  him  in  detail  how  strangely 
her  uncle  had  acted ;  and  that  he  looked  very  much 
like  a  madman,  meanwhile  crying  out  and  refus 
ing  to  be  assured  of  safety. 

"Just  as  I  feared,"  remarked  the  doctor,  when  Is 
abel  had  concluded. 

"Do  you  think  it  was  more  than  an  ordinary 
dream,  Doctor?"  asked  Isabel,  fearfully. 

"I  am  inclined  to  believe  it  was,"  the  doctor 
thoughtfully  remarked.  "He  evidently  dreamed, 
and  by  it  was  greatly  excited ;  but  it  was  more  than 
a  dream  when  he  leaped  from  the  bed  and  ran 
across  the  floor  to  make  his  escape.  It  was  then  an 
hallucination;  and  the  pursuit  was  as  real  to  him 
as  if  officers  of  the  law  had  broken  into  his  room 
to  take  him  away  for  the  commission  of  some  foul 
crime.  Hallucinations  of  this  kind  are  the  result  of 
cerebral  derangement,  and  are  common  phenomena 
in  cases  of  insanity." 

"But  do  you  think  my  uncle  is  insane?"  asked 
Isabel,  with  horror  in  her  voice  and  face. 

"No,  not  yet,"  answered  the  doctor,  slowly;  "but 
I  do  not  feel  inclined  to  say  that  he  will  not  be.  He 
is  certainly  suffering  from  a  great  mental  shock, 
and  if  relief  cannot  be  given  him  his  case  will  be 
come  serious." 

"Do  you  really  think  he  saw  the  men  in  pursuit 
of  him  ?  or  may  it  not  be  that  he  only  dreamed  it  ?" 
asked  Isabel. 

"He  thought  he  saw  them,"  answered  the  doc 
tor,  "and  you  could  not  persuade  him  to  the  con- 


H4         IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

trary.  Like  a  man  in  delirium  tremens,  the  object 
before  his  distorted  imagination  has  the  effect  of 
being  real.  He  actually  believed  he  was  being 
sought  by  unfriendly  persons." 

"Why  were  you  not  surprised  at  his  condition, 
Doctor?  You  seem  to  have  anticipated  it." 

"This  was  my  fear  when  I  first  called,"  answered 
the  doctor.  "I  then  thought  and  I  still  think  your 
uncle's  trouble  is  more  mental  than  physical." 

"O,  Doctor,  do  you  think  his  mind  will  become 
deranged?"  asked  Isabel,  becoming  more  and  more 
concerned. 

"I  am  not  sure;  but  that  he  is  under  a  great 
mental  strain  I  am  certain,  and  no  one  can  tell 
what  will  be  the  outcome  of  it." 

"Have  you  an  idea  what  is  the  cause  of  this  men 
tal  strain  of  which  you  speak?" 

Isabel  was  determined  to  force  the  physician  to 
speak  freely  to  her. 

"I,  I  hesitate  to  say,  but—" 

"Tell  me  the  worst,  Doctor.     I  must  know." 

"Your  uncle  is  probably  carrying, well — well — " 

"Carrying  what,  Doctor?"  persisted  Isabel,  with 
a  pleading  earnestness,  fearing  the  old  doctor 
would  yet  withhold  the  information.  "I  must 
know.  Tell  me  all." 

"Carrying  some  great  secret,  and  fears  a  sudden 
disclosure,"  answered  the  doctor. 

"O,  Doctor,  you  alarm  me  by  the  suggestion. 
What  is  the  nature  of  the  secret?"  asked  Isabel. 
As  she  stammered  out  the  question  she  leaned 
against  the  wall  for  support. 


ARNOLD'S  CASE  is  DIAGNOSED  115 

"I'm  sure  I  do  not  know,"  replied  the  doctor, 
"but  the  conduct  that  you  describe,  and  the  nature 
of  his  talk  during  the  strange  spell,  is  suggestive,  to 
say  the  least." 

Isabel  became  so  disturbed  at  this  that  Dr.  Dem- 
ster,  fearing  she  might  fall,  supported  her  by  plac 
ing  his  left  hand  against  her  shoulder,  and  with  the 
right,  taking  her  by  the  hand,  led  her  across  the 
hall,  where  she  sat  upon  a  chair  and  leaned  against 
the  balustrade. 

"My  child,"  continued  the  doctor,  gently,  "I  am 
not  certain;  I  only  surmise.  Your  uncle's  actions 
while  in  bed,  and  his  first  utterance,  and  the  subse 
quent  apparition,  I  fear,  have  some  bearing  upon 
the  secret  with  which  he  is  burdened.  To  my  mind, 
the  heavy  blow  he  appeared  to  deal,  accompanied 
by  the  words,  'There,  you  foreign  devil;  take  that. 
You  infernal  Frenchman!'  is  very  significant,  in 
deed." 

Isabel  caught  the  doctor's  meaning  and  by  this 
she  knew  his  opinion  of  her  Uncle  Gabriel.  He 
needed  not  to  say  more,  for  she  could  now  read  his 
thought.  He  evidently  believed  her  uncle  was 
guilty  of  a  grave  offense.  Could  it  be  possible? 
And  was  she  forced  to  believe  it,  whether  she  would 
or  not? 

"O,  Doctor,  Doctor !  Do  you  mean  it  ?"  cried  Is 
abel,  loud  enough  to  be  heard  by  Arnold  himself. 
"Is  my  uncle  the  guilty  wretch  you  intimate?" 

Gabriel  Arnold,  at  this  unguarded  cry  of  his 
niece,  again  became  alarmed.  He  leaped  from  the 
bed  and  paced  about  the  room,  maddened  with 


n6         IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

fear.  Then  he  rushed  to  one  corner,  stooped  close 
to  the  floor,  with  his  face  buried  in  his  arms,  shriek 
ing: 

"O,  Isabel,  Isabel !  They  are  coming.  They  are 
coming  back.  They'll  catch  me.  O !  O !" 

The  peculiar  sound  of  Arnold's  cry,  and  the 
pleading  tenderness  with  which  he  called  her  name, 
made  Isabel  forget  herself  for  a  time,  and  in  a  mo 
ment  more  she  and  the  doctor  had  entered  the 
room  and  were  standing  at  the  unhappy  man's 
back.  He  pressed  closely  into  the  corner,  to  hide 
from  his  imaginary  pursuers,  looking  over  his 
shoulders  as  Isabel  and  the  doctor  approached. 

"O,  Isabel,  Isabel!  I'm  so  glad  you've  come," 
ejaculated  Arnold,  shudderingly.  "Didn't  you  hear 
them?  They  have  come  back." 

"No,  uncle,"  answered  Isabel,  "it  was  the  doc 
tor  and  I  talking  in  the  hall.  Here  he  is.  Don't 
you  recognize  him  ?  Look !" 

As  Dr.  Demster  looked  into  Gabriel  Arnold's 
bewildered  eyes  he  saw,  back  of  them,  a  troubled 
soul.  He  also  observed  the  old  man's  great  frame 
shaking,  from  head  to  foot,  though  his  own  pres 
ence  had  somewhat  quieted  him.  The  doctor  was 
more  than  ever  convinced  of  the  correctness  of  his 
diagnosis  of  the  case,  as  he  had  given  it  to  Isabel 
but  a  few  moments  before.  He  was  thoroughly 
persuaded  now,  as  he  had  not  been  during  his  first 
visit;  thought,  then  suspicion  was  aroused  that  the 
patient  was  suffering  from  an  incipient  case  of 
paresis  occasioned  by  the  commission  of  some  act, 
the  disclosure  of  which,  might  cause  serious  trouble. 


ARNOLD'S  CASE  is  DIAGNOSED  117 

Understanding  the  case  so  thoroughly,  Dr.  Dem- 
ster  knew  just  what  treatment  to  employ  to  create 
a  normal  condition  in  the  patient,  and  thus  restore 
him  to  a  rational  state  of  mind.  His  presence  al 
ways  had  a  salutary  effect,  which  unfortunately  did 
not  continue;  for  it  was  not  long  after  his  first 
visit  that  Arnold  again  became  the  inhuman  brute 
he  had  been  so  often  of  late  and  then  dropped  back 
into  a  melancholy  state  of  mind  in  which  he  was 
quite  docile.  Upon  the  slightest  provocation  at  any 
time  he  would  rage  like  a  madman. 

Arnold  was  soon  induced  to  come  out  of  the  cor 
ner  and  return  to  bed.  Dr.  Demster,  accompanied 
by  Isabel,  left  the  room  to  give  the  necessary  direc 
tions  for  the  treatment  of  her  uncle. 

"Doctor,  do  you  entertain  the  same  opinion  of 
my  uncle's  case,  now  that  you  have  seen  him  for 
yourself,  or  is  it  possible  that  you  may  have  changed 
your  mind?  May  you  not  have  been  mistaken?" 
questioned  Isabel,  eagerly,  as  the  doctor  stepped 
from  the  door. 

"No,  my  dear  girl;  not  mistaken,"  said  the  doc 
tor,  emphatically.  "My  mind  is  not  changed;  nor 
am  I  mistaken.  There  is  no  avoiding  the  fact  that 
your  uncle  is  in  great  distress  of  mind,  and  I  fear 
I  can  guess  his  secret.  I  hope  I  am  mistaken,  but 
the  chances  are  that  I  am  right.  Make  the  best  of 
it,  my  child.  I  fear  for  the  future  of  your  uncle." 

In  a  moment  more  Dr.  Demster  and  Joel  Van- 
tine,  who  had  remained  in  the  carriage,  were  on 
their  way  down  the  sycamore  lane  at  the  speed  of 
the  old  mare's  customary  jog,  leaving  Isabel  stand- 


u8         IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

ing  upon  the  stile  watching  them  sadly  as  the  car 
riage  moved  slowly  away. 

Vantine  could  not  resist  the  impulse  to  look 
through  the  small  glass  in  the  back  curtain  of  the 
carriage  to  admire  Isabel  as  she  stood  thus  alone; 
and  several  times,  while  the  view  was  unobstructed, 
he  leaned  half  over  the  side  in  order  to  see  her 
more  plainly  than  was  possible  through  the  little 
curtain  window. 

Dr.  Demster,  though  always  in  a  thoughtful  and 
serious  mood,  observing  the  young  man's  interest 
in  Isabel,  broke  the  silence  by  asking:  "Have 
you  seen  Miss  Proctor  before?  You  seem  to  be 
interested  in  her." 

"I  have  seen  her  once  before,"  said  Vantine. 
"She  was  then  conversing  with  a  black-haired  chap 
— rather  fine  looking,  I  confess — and  unless  I'm 
greatly  mistaken  that  fellow  who  stood  against 
the  tree,  there,  is  the  same  lad.  Interested?  I 
should  say  I  am.  I  don't  know  her,  but  I  mean  to 
scrape  an  acquaintance,  and  if  that  fellow  is  in  the 
way — well — well — he'll  have  to  get  out  of  it — that's 
all.  He  has  nice  hair,  and  I  admit  is  passably  good 
looking;  but  you  know  these  gray  clothes,  brass 
buttons  and  the  gold  lace  on  these  sleeves  are  every 
thing  in  a  girl's  eyes.  Mark  me!  That  girl  will 
never  turn  down  the  uniform  of  a  dashing  Confed 
erate  officer,  no  matter  what  she  may  think  of  an 
ununiformed  rival." 


CHAPTER  XIV 
COUNT  DE  BUSSY 

COUNT  DE  BUSSY  was  one  of  the  favorites  of 
Napoleon  III,  and  was  intimately  associated  with, 
and  occupied  an  important  place  in  the  history  of 
the  foreign  affairs  of  the  Second  French  Empire. 
He  was  a  descendant  of  one  of  the  most  ancient 
and  honorable  families  of  Lorraine.  His  father 
had  been  an  ardent  Bonapartist,  and  by  his  gallant 
services  at  Friedland,  Luxembourg  and  Verdun 
had  attracted  the  attention  of  the  First  Napoleon, 
who  gave  him  honorable  mention  and  granted  him 
a  liberal  endowment.  So  loyal  had  he  been  to  the 
great  Emperor  that  he  remained  a  Bonapartist 
under  the  Restoration  regime,  and  afterward  lived 
in  exile  until  the  Revolution  of  '30,  when  he  again 
rendered  heroic  service  as  a  general. 

It  was  the  elder  de  Bussy  who,  after  passing 
through  various  campaigns,  and  receiving  numer 
ous  wounds,  followed  the  Emperor  as  far  in  his 
humiliation  as  he  was  permitted.  His  enforced 
parting  from  the  man  whom  he  considered  his 
master  was  extremely  pathetic.  When  Napoleon 
and  his  suite  were  ordered  from  the  Bellerophon 
to  the  Northumberland  de  Bussy  begged  the 
privilege  of  accompanying  him  to  St.  Helena,  offer 
ing  to  serve  in  the  most  menial  capacity. 


I2O 

When  delay  was  no  longer  tolerated  he  clung  to 
the  fallen  Emperor's  knees  and  wept  like  a  child. 
As  the  Northumberland  sailed  toward  the  far-away 
prison  island,  and  the  Bellerophon  bent  her  sails  for 
Malta,  he  stood  upon  the  deck,  gazing  through  his 
tears,  as  he  exclaimed : 

"O  that  I  might  enjoy  the  honor  of  being  a 
prisoner  with  the  greatest  and  best  of  rulers !  Have 
not  I  loved  him  as  well  as  Bertrand,  Montholon, 
Las  Casas,  or  Gourgaud?" 

It  was  not  surprising  that  when  the  fortunes  of 
Napoleon  III  changed,  and  he  emerged  from  his 
exile  and  obscurity,  his  attention  should  have  been 
drawn  to  the  younger  de  Bussy,  whose  father  had 
been  so  faithful  to  his  illustrious  uncle.  When 
elected  to  the  Presidency  of  the  French  Republic 
de  Bussy  was  elected  as  one  of  his  chief  advisers, 
and  in  the  transition  period,  when  the  government 
was  passing  from  republic  to  empire,  Napoleon 
sought  the  young  man's  counsel  to  aid  in  steering 
the  unsteady  ship  of  state,  and  through  all  the 
movements  in  its  subsequent  success  he  contributed 
considerably  more  than  one  man's  share. 

In  the  Italian  campaign  his  service  was  conspic 
uously  heroic.  At  the  Bridge  of  the  Buffalora,  in 
the  battle  of  Magenta,  which  was  won  and  lost 
seven  times  in  a  single  day,  his  heroism  had  much 
to  do  with  turning  the  tide  of  battle  and  giving 
the  victory  at  last  to  the  army  of  the  Emperor.  At 
Solferino,  where  for  sixteen  hours  the  bloody  con 
test  raged,  his  services  were  no  less  valorous. 

It  was  for  his  gallantry  in  these  two  decisive  en- 


COUNT  DE  BUSSY  121 

gagements  that  Napoleon  III  constituted  de  Bussy 
a  member  of  the  Legion  of  Honor,  and  presented 
him  publicly  with  the  medal  of  the  order.  The 
medal  bore  upon  one  side  a  profile  of  the  Emperor, 
and  upon  the  other  a  short  inscription  which  told 
of  his  bravery  at  Magenta  and  Solferino. 

Count  de  Bussy  was  not  only  brave  upon  the 
field  of  battle,  but  he  was  wise  in  the  council  cham 
ber  as  well.  He  was  entrusted  with  the  solution 
of  many  important  questions  of  state,  and  proved 
himself  to  be  one  of  the  shrewdest  diplomatists  of 
the  Empire,  bringing  to  a  happy  culmination  most 
of  the  negotiations  undertaken  during  his  incum 
bency. 

When  this  illustrious  Frenchman  first  made  his 
appearance  in  Tidewater  Virginia,  many  and  va 
rious  were  the  rumors  concerning  him.  His  visits 
in  the  beginning  were  only  occasional,  and  no  one 
knew  whence  he  came  or  where  he  went.  When  it 
became  noised  abroad  that  the  handsome  foreigner 
was  a  French  nobleman  of  high  rank,  many  of  the 
wiseacres  shook  their  heads  and  ventured  the 
opinion  that  he  was  a  pretender,  and  that  he  was  not 
in  Tidewater  for  any  good  purpose. 

This  verdict  was  confirmed  in  the  minds  of  not 
a  few  when  it  happened  that  the  Count  was  pay 
ing  attention  to  a  daughter  of  one  of  the  prosper 
ous  families.  When  the  foreigner  and  Miss  Marie 
Clendenning  were  one  evening  seen  standing  to 
gether  upon  the  veranda  of  her  father's  home,  ad 
miring  a  century  plant  just  about  to  bloom,  the 
town  folk  then  knew  the  Frenchman  was  not  what 


122         IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

he  was  represented  to  be,  and  that  his  only  pur 
pose  was  to  marry  the  rich  man's  daughter  and  in 
this  way  get  possession  of  the  father's  wealth. 

A  more  important  rumor  was  quietly  circulated, 
but  failed  to  gain  general  credence.  It  was  to  the 
effect  that  the  stranger  was  really  a  French  noble 
man,  and  that  he  was  in  Virginia  attending  to  some 
state  business  of  vital  importance.  It  was  believed, 
and  had  been  for  some  time,  that  the  Emperor  of 
France  was  anxious  for  the  recognition  of  the  in 
dependence  of  the  Confederacy,  and  it  was  thought 
that  Count  de  Bussy  was  his  representative  to  the 
President  of  the  Confederate  States;  and  that  his 
visits  to  Tidewater  were  incidental. 

Conjectures  were  abundant,  but  this  much  was 
known.  A  Frenchman,  who  claimed  nothing  for 
himself  but  for  whom  rumor  claimed  much,  vis 
ited  Tidewater  Virginia,  in  1861.  He  was  tall, 
broad-shouldered  and  well-proportioned.  In  his 
walk  he  stepped  with  a  steady  tread  and  clearly 
showed  the  military  bearing.  His  forehead  was 
unusually  high  and  broad,  and  his  brow  heavy.  His 
face  was  clean-shaven,  except  for  a  tuft  of  beard 
near  his  ears.  He  wore  a  heavy  coat,  buttoned 
from  the  waist  to  the  neck.  This  had  a  wide  collar 
turned  back,  exposing  a  conspicuous  black  silk 
cloth,  which  was  wrapped  about  his  neck  in  such 
a  fashion  as  to  obscure  completely  his  shirt  bosom 
and  white  collar,  though  the  latter  article  stood 
sufficiently  high  to  touch  his  ears. 

It  was  further  known  that  the  stranger  made  but 
few  friends.  Indeed,  there  was  but  one  home  he 


COUNT  DE  BUSSY  123 

ever  visited.  No  one  knew,  though  many  imagined 
they  knew,  just  why  he  spent  so  much  time  at  the 
Clendennings' — whether  it  was  merely  to  woo  the 
beautiful  daughter  or  if  it  had  some  political  sig 
nificance. 

The  matter,  however,  was  soon  settled.  The 
careful  and  conservative  Virginians  of  Tidewater 
were  shocked  at  the  announcement  of  the  marriage 
of  Count  de  Bussy  and  the  young  woman  to  whom 
he  had  been  devoted.  The  family  had  been  warned 
against  the  French  pretender,  but  the  wooing  went 
on  and  the  marriage  took  place.  Notwithstanding 
the  brief  courtship  and  the  sudden  marriage  there 
were  those  who  believed  that  the  Count  had  busi 
ness  to  transact  other  than  matrimony,  and  that 
sooner  or  later  it  would  be  known  just  what  was 
his  errand. 

Count  de  Bussy  vanished  as  suddenly  as  he  had 
come.  When  he  disappeared  the  town  folk  renewed 
their  gossip  concerning  him.  Many  again  insisted 
that  he  was  a  pretender;  and  that,  now,  having  ac 
complished  his  purpose,  he  had  gone  without  leav 
ing  any  trace  of  his  whereabouts.  Others  said  he 
was  suddenly  summoned  to  France  on  important 
state  business,  and  that  he  would  soon  return  to 
complete  the  negotiations  between  President  Davis 
and  Napoleon  III,  but  they  thought  it  exceedingly 
strange  that  he  should  leave,  even  on  such  impor 
tant  business,  without  some  intimation  as  to  where 
he  had  gone.  His  young  wife  waited  in  sadness, 
but  no  tidings  from  the  Count  came  to  silence  suspi 
cion  and  to  assure  her  of  his  fidelity. 


CHAPTER  XV 
Two  SURPRISES 

UNCLE  ZEKE  sat  upon  the  side  of  his  cot  medi 
tating  upon  recent  events.  How  much  had  hap 
pened!  It  was  past  midnight,  but  the  old  man  had 
not  yet  retired.  There  was  nothing  to  prevent  his 
going  to  bed,  but  he  felt  no  desire  to  do  so.  His 
mind  dwelt  upon  his  master  and  what  had  hap 
pened  on  the  "Dark  Day,"  though  he  shuddered  as 
he  reflected  upon  it.  Again,  in  fancy,  he  saw  the 
ghost  in  the  pine  woods.  Gradually  his  mind  re 
verted  to  less  horrible  subjects,  and  he  wondered  if 
Leonidas  had  gone  through  the  pines,  and  if  he, 
too,  had  seen  the  ghost. 

It  was  not  these  unpleasant  reflections  which  had 
prevented  Uncle  Zeke  from  retiring.  He  had  a  pre 
sentiment  that  he  ought  to  sit  up.  He  wondered  if 
it  could  be  that  Leonidas,  or  some  friend  of  his, 
might  need  him.  The  old  slave  started  suddenly, 
as  he  heard  a  rapping  at  the  cabin  door. 

"I  knows  de  meanin'  ob  dat — two  loud  raps,  an' 
two  easy  uns;  den,  un  moe  loud  un.  Dat's  Mars 
Lonny  Darwood.  I  knows  it,  kaise  dat's  de  kin'  ob 
knocks  dat  he  tol'  me  'bout  when  he  lef  hyar,"  said 
Zeke,  jubilantly,  as  he  hobbled  toward  the  door. 
"Cum  in,  Mars  Lonny, — I's  bin  'speckin'  yer  dis 
long  time.  I  jes  knowd  yer  wus  cumin'  dis  night. 
I's  felt  it  in  my  ol'  bones.  Dat  I  did." 


Two  SURPRISES  125 

When  the  midnight  visitor  responded  to  the  in 
vitation,  and  stepped  from  the  darkness  into  the 
dim  light  of  Zeke's  cabin,  the  old  negro  was 
startled  to  discover  that  it  was  not  Leonidas.  It  was 
a  stranger  whom  he  had  never  seen  before.  He 
staggered  back  in  the  direction  of  the  cot,  trembling 
violently  and  his  knees  knocking  together  as  he 
scanned  more  carefully  the  appearance  of  the  un 
timely  visitor.  Recovering  from  his  surprise  and 
disappointment,  and  stepping  closer  to  the  stran 
ger,  the  old  man  said : 

"I  hain't  scyard, — no  surree, — Zeke  hain't 
scyard.  I  don't  know  yer,  stranger.  Fs  never  seed 
yer  befoe,  but  I  knows  yer's  got  sum  word  frum 
Mars  Lonny  Darwood.  He  tol'  yer  how  ter  knock 
at  dat  doe.  Cum,  stranger,  tell  ol'  Zeke  'bout  Mars 
Lonny." 

The  stranger  was  of  medium  height  and  rather 
stout,  with  broad  shoulders.  He  was  attired  in  a 
long  loose  garment,  not  a  coat,  buttoned  from  neck 
to  skirt,  and  this  reached  nearly  to  the  floor  as  he 
stood  erect.  It  hung  in  irregular  folds  about  his 
body,  scarcely  touching  him  except  where  it  was 
bound  by  a  leather  belt  buckled  tightly  about  his 
waist.  To  this  belt,  on  one  side,  a  knife  was  fas 
tened.  He  wore  a  high,  broad-brimmed  hat,  made 
of  soft  material,  and  pulled  far  down,  and  his  ears 
stood  out  at  right  angles  from  the  sides  of  his  head. 
His  long  jet  black  hair  fell  in  ringlets ;  his  whiskers, 
like  his  hair,  were  black  and  kinky,  and  were  of 
that  sort  which  turned  toward  the  face  after  a 
short  length  and  appeared  to  take  root  at  the  other 


126         IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

end.  His  complexion  was  unusually  dark,  and  his 
eyes,  set  deep  beneath  heavy  brows,  were  raven 
black. 

Though  Uncle  Zeke  declared  he  was  not  discon 
certed,  and  that  he  knew  somewhat  of  the  stranger's 
mission,  he  was,  nevertheless,  greatly  impressed 
with  the  man's  striking  appearance,  and  wondered 
if,  after  all,  he  might  not  be  mistaken.  If  so,  what 
could  his  errand  be,  and  what  could  he  do  in  the 
hands  of  such  a  man? 

As  Zeke  eyed  his  visitor,  a  few  points  attracted 
his  attention.  He  observed  that,  while  the  man's 
complexion  was  darker  than  that  of  many  slaves, 
it  was  apparent  that  he  was  not  a  mulatto.  He  was 
not  a  negro,  but  a  foreigner.  This  much  Uncle 
Zeke  was  able  to  determine.  He  also  discovered 
that  the  man's  long  garment  had  been  torn  in  many 
places,  chiefly  about  the  neck,  and  was  patched  with 
cloth  of  a  different  color  and  texture,  and  on  his 
temple,  extending  over  his  left  eye,  there  was  an 
ugly  wound,  not  yet  wholly  healed. 

Zeke,  less  confident  than  when  the  man  entered, 
asked  again  with  some  hesitancy:  "Who  am  yer, 
stranger?  What  yer  cum  fur?  Did  yer  cum  frum 
Mars  Lonny  Darwood?  Whar's  Mars  Lonny,  an' 
what  he  wants?" 

"Him  sent — Mine  frind — me — him  sent,"  said 
Ezra,  the  bear  trainer,  pointing  first  in  the  direc 
tion  whence  he  came,  then  to  himself. 

Placing  his  hand  in  his  bosom  he  took  from  it 
a  letter,  and  handed  it  to  Zeke,  saying  impress 
ively:  "Mine  frind — sent  letter — Isbel — take — 


Two  SURPRISES  127 

must  know — take  her  letter.  Mine  frind  well — me 
go.  Me  die  for  mine  frind — save  mine  life." 

Ezra  gesticulated  extravagantly,  and  made  a 
great  effort  to  explain  to  Zeke  that  Leonidas  had 
saved  his  life,  and  that  in  consequence  he  was  ready 
to  die  for  him.  He  pointed  to  the  scar  on  his  head, 
and  exclaimed:  "Mine  frind — save  life, — big  bear 
— me  die  for  him, — save  life." 

Without  another  word  Ezra  passed  impressively 
out  of  the  cabin  door  and  disappeared  in  the  dark 
ness. 

Zeke  did  not  understand  all  that  Ezra  meant. 
But  he  did  grasp  a  part  of  his  meaning,  at  least. 
He  knew  now  that  he  was  entrusted  with  a  secret 
message  to  Isabel,  and  that  at  the  earliest  possible 
moment  he  must  deliver  it  in  person. 

The  next  morning  Isabel  was  sitting  under  the 
scuppernong  arbor  with  a  basin  of  cracked  corn 
in  her  lap.  The  half-grown  game  chickens  were 
running  and  jumping  and  flying  about  her  feet,  as 
Zeke  limped  to  where  she  sat  and  touched  her 
upon  the  arm. 

"Missis  Bel,  hyars  er  letter  frum  Mars  Lonny," 
he  whispered.  "I  knows  yer  wants  ter  read  it. 
When  yer's  read  it  let  ol'  Zeke  know  'bout  Mars 
Lonny,  kaise  I's  ben  er  worryin'  an'  er  dreamin' 
'bout  'im." 

Without  asking  how  he  had  received  the  letter, 
with  a  glance  of  gratitude  she  ran  eagerly  down  the 
sycamore  lane,  and  turned  into  the  pine  woods,  by 
the  very  path  Leonidas  had  taken  a  short  time  be 
fore.  Feeling  the  need  of  caution,  she  had  placed 


128         IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

the  letter  under  her  apron,  and  did  not  remove  it 
until  she  was  out  of  sight  of  the  house.  When  she 
reached  the  branch  which  runs  through  the  pine 
woods,  she  sat  under  the  tree  where  Leonidas  had 
found  the  French  medal,  and  after  looking  about 
began  to  read: 

"DEEP  CREEK,  VA. 

"Mv  DEAREST  ISABEL  :  Events  have  taken  a  pe 
culiar  turn  since  I  left  Briarcrest,  but  I  believe  the 
hand  of  a  gracious  Providence  is  shaping  my  life. 
Many  strange  things  have  happened.  I  cannot 
write  about  all  of  them,  but  will  tell  you  of  them 
when  I  am  so  fortunate  as  to  see  you  again. 

"You  will  be  interested  to  know  that  I  have  found 
a  friend  in  Dr.  Demster.  He  is  a  strange  old  man, 
and  does  not  care  for  many  people,  but  he  has  been 
very  kind  to  me,  and  has  made  it  possible  for  me 
to  be  self-supporting.  I  am  attending  to  some  of 
his  lumber  interests  in  the  swamp,  for  which  he  is 
paying  me  generously.  The  doctor  does  not 
promise  me  anything  for  the  future,  except  to  be 
my  friend,  and  he  has  asked  me  for  my  friendship. 

"By  the  way,  he  told  me  about  his  visit  to  Briar- 
crest,  and  his  impressions  concerning  your  uncle's 
condition.  If  his  opinion  be  correct,  and  the  case 
turn  out  as  he  thinks,  it  will  be  fearful.  But  let 
us  hope  for  the  best,  and  trust  he  is  mistaken.  I 
have  been  forced  to  have  my  own  opinion  about  it, 
too. 

"I  found  in  the  woods,  just  where  the  path  cross 
es  the  branch,  a  strange  medal,  which  was  owned  by 
a  French  nobleman,  and  on  which  is  a  noted  name 


Two  SURPRISES  129 

and  date — the  name  of  Count  de  Bussy  and  the 
date,  1859.  But  I  will  tell  you  more  about  it  when 
I  see  you. 

"The  doctor  has  also  told  me  of  the  young  Con 
federate  officer's  chance  visit  to  Briarcrest,  and 
how  he  was  impressed  with  you  as  you  stood  upon 
the  stile  in  front  of  the  house.  Did  you  know  he 
was  careful  to  watch  you  as  long  as  he  could,  by 
leaning  out  of  the  carriage? 

"Now,  my  dearest  Isabel,  don't  think  I  am  uneasy 
or  jealous.  You  have  not  told  me  yet  that  you  love 
me,  but  I  trust  you  do,  and  that  when  I  see  you. 
again,  you  will  tell  me  so,  in  the  same  unmistakable 
language  in  which  my  own  love  was  expressed.  It 
is  quite  natural  that  Vantine  should  admire  you.  It 
would  surprise  me  if  he  did  not.  But,  Isabel,  I 
wish  to  caution  you  against  this  man.  He  means 
no  good  to  me,  and  I  am  persuaded  that  he  means 
none  to  you.  I  have  been  forced  to  count  him  as 
an  enemy,  and  he  will  not  scruple  to  do  me  the 
greatest  injury.  Be  on  your  guard  against  him 
and  give  him  no  quarter,  as  he  made  his  boast  to 
Dr.  Demster  that  you  could  not  resist  his  uniform ; 
and  that  if  I  were  in  the  way  of  his  suit  he  would 
dispose  of  me. 

"Dearest  Isabel,  I  love  and  trust  you  fully.  Until 
we  meet,  good-bye.  Yours,  lovingly, 

"LEONID  AS. 

"P.  S. — I  will  come  to  Briarcrest  some  time  soon 
— probably  in  a  few  days.  L." 

Isabel  read  the  letter  again  and  again,  with  vary 
ing  emotions.  The  fact  that  Leonidas  had  found 


130         IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

a  friend  in  Dr.  Demster  pleased  her,  while  the  repe 
tition  of  the  doctor's  opinion  of  her  uncle's  case 
distressed  her  greatly.  The  reference  to  Vantine's 
visit  produced  a  strange  sensation.  She  hoped 
Leonidas  might  be  mistaken  in  his  opinion,  but  still 
she  wondered  what  strange  chance  had  brought  the 
young  Confederate  across  their .  pathway.  The 
changing  moods  produced  by  the  letter  were  all 
overshadowed  by  its  short  postscript.  The  pros 
pect  of  seeing  Leonidas  in  a  short  time  delighted 
her  so  that  even  the  reference  to  her  uncle  and  the 
prospect  of  a  probable  interference  on  the  part  of 
Vantine,  were  powerless  to  depress  her. 

Isabel  sat  at  the  root  of  the  tree  with  the  letter 
lying  upon  the  ground  at  her  side.  She  was  lost 
in  thought,  and  perfectly  oblivious  to  the  surround 
ings,  until  she  was  aroused  by  the  snapping  of  a 
twig.  She  knew  the  meaning  of  the  sound,  for  it 
was  exactly  like  the  peculiar  noise  produced  by  her 
own  tread  upon  a  dry  pine  stick,  as  she  had  come 
into  the  woods.  She  arose  quickly,  and  without 
pausing  to  learn  the  exact  cause  of  the  noise,  started 
down  the  path  to  make  her  way  back  to  the  syca 
more  lane,  leaving  the  letter  lying  on  the  ground. 

"Excuse  me,  Miss  Proctor,"  came  a  voice  from 
behind  her.  "Here  is  your  letter.  You  probably 
did  not  intend  to  leave  it." 

It  was  Vantine  who  spoke.  He  had  seen  Isabel 
as  she  passed  into  the  woods,  and  had  hastened  to 
enter  from  another  direction.  He  succeeded  in 
reaching  the  tree  under  which  she  was  sitting,  with 
out  being  observed.  While  she  read  the  letter,  he, 


td 


Two  SURPRISES  131 

too,  had  noted  most  of  its  contents,  and  had  seen 
plainly  the  parts  which  referred  to  Gabriel  Ar 
nold,  the  French  nobleman  and  himself.  When  he 
saw  Isabel  lay  the  letter  down,  and  knew  she  was 
meditating  upon  its  contents,  he  attracted  her  at 
tention  by  snapping  a  dry  stick. 

Isabel  was  surprised  and  disturbed,  but  grasped 
the  situation  immediately,  as  she  observed  the 
young  man  in  the  uniform  of  a  Confederate  lieu 
tenant.  She  knew  it  was  Joel  Vantine  and  recog 
nized  him  as  the  officer  who  had  accompanied  Dr. 
Demster  to  Briarcrest. 

"O!"  exclaimed  Isabel,  tremblingly.  "Thank 
you  for  calling  my  attention  to  the  letter.  It  is 
from  a  friend,  and  it  would  surely  look  like  care 
lessness  to  leave  it  here  on  the  ground.  I  thank  you, 
Mr.  Vantine,  most  sincerely." 

"Then,  you  know  who  I  am?" 

"Yes,  I  know  you  are  an  officer  in  the  Confed 
erate  States  Army,  and  I  have  lately  learned  your 
name,"  admitted  Isabel. 

"Then,  I  am  sure  you  will  hear  what  I  have  to 
say,  when  I  tell  you  why  I  am  here,"  continued 
Vantine. 

"I  wondered,  when  I  saw  you,  just  why  you  were 
here,"  answered  Isabel,  "and  if  you  had  just  come 
when  you  trod  on  the  stick,  and  spoke  to  me." 

"I  came  to  see  you,  Miss  Proctor,"  said  Vantine, 
hurriedly.  "I  have  had  something  to  say  to  you 
since  I  saw  you  standing  on  the  stile  and  this  is  my 
first  opportunity.  I  wish  to  say  it  now.  Will  you 
hear  me?" 


132         IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

"But  I  must  hasten  back  to  the  house,"  Isabel 
expostulated.  "My  uncle  is  not  well,  and  I  have 
been  away  too  long  already.  You  will  excuse  me, 
Mr.  Vantine,  I  am  sure." 

"No,  I'll  not  excuse  you.  You  must  hear  me 
now,"  answered  Vantine,  in  a  very  determined  tone 
of  voice,  drawing  nearer  to  where  Isabel  stood  and 
endeavoring  to  take  her  by  the  hand. 

Isabel  now  realized  that  she  was  powerless  to 
withdraw  at  once  and  she  determined  to  make  the 
best  of  an  unpleasant  situation.  To  be  alone  in  the 
woods  with  a  man  concerning  whom  she  knew 
little,  and  that  little  unfavorable,  was  a  very  undesir 
able  position.  Moreover,  he  was  the  man  about 
whom  Leonidas  entertained  such  serious  suspicion. 

"What  have  you  to  say  to  me,  Mr.  Vantine?"  de 
manded  Isabel,  snatching  away  her  hand,  as  she 
stepped  back  a  pace  from  where  the  officer  stood. 

"Miss  Proctor,  don't  be  afraid  of  me,"  pleaded 
Vantine,  with  considerable  tenderness  in  his  voice. 
"I  mean  no  harm  to  you,  I  vow.  I  mean  only  the 
best  happiness  for  you.  This  is  why  I  am  here." 

"What  is  it  that  you  wish?"  asked  Isabel,  realiz 
ing  his  meaning  as  she  saw  the  suggestive  expres 
sion  of  his  eyes. 

"It  is  needless  to  multiply  words.  I  mean  that 
I  love  you,  and  have  waited  for  an  opportunity  to 
ask  you  to  become  my  wife.  I  have  made  the  op 
portunity,  and  I  ask  you  now  and  here  to  marry 
me.  What  dp  you  say  ?  Will  you  have  me  ?" 

"I — I — I — why,  Mr.  Vantine,  what  did  you  say?" 

"I  ask  you  to  become  my  wife,"  answered  Van- 


Two  SURPRISES  133 

tine  slowly,  smiling  at  her  agitation,  "and  I  will  be 
patient  until  you  give  me  your  answer." 

"W — e — e — e — 11,  it  is  hardly  fair  to  insist  upon 
an  answer  now,"  announced  Isabel.  "You  took  me 
so  by  surprise  that  I  was  not  at  all  prepared  for  it. 
You  greatly  compliment  me  by  wishing  me  to  be 
come  your  wife,  but  you  know  so  serious  a  matter 
should  be  considered  very  carefully.  I  am  not 
ready  to  answer." 

"Miss  Proctor,  I  love  you,"  persisted  the  soldier, 
gazing  into  her  eyes;  "do  you  wish  more  than 
that?" 

"No,"  replied  Isabel,  slowly;  "I  could  ask  no 
more  of  the  man  I  marry.  If  a  woman  has  a  man's 
love,  she  has  everything;  but  I  am  not  ready  to  be 
come  your  wife." 

"Why  can't  you  take  me,  and  be  mine?"  urged 
Vantine.  "What  stands  in  the  way?  O,  I  think 
I  know.  Are  you  engaged  to — to —  that  is 
rather  a  direct  question,  but  are  you  not  engaged 
to  Leonidas  Darwood?  Have  you  told  him  you 
love  him?" 

The  sound  of  Leonidas  Darwood's  name  from 
the  lips  of  the  man  whom  he  believed  to  be  his 
enemy  caused  her  to  shudder  and  shrink  away. 

"No,  I  am  not  engaged  to  Leonidas  Darwood,  or 
to  anyone  else,  but  I  am  not  ready  to  promise  to 
become  your  wife.  You  do  not  know  the  conditions 
of  my  life  or  I  am  sure  you  would  not  ask  me  to 
marry  you." 

"I  know  more  about  your  life  than  you  imagine," 

responded  Vantine,  hoping  to  commit  her  to  a  fav- 
10 


134         IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

orable  answer  at  once.  "I  know  your  parents  are 
dead,  and  that  you  are  not  happy  with  your  uncle. 
Pardon  me  if  I  say  also  that  I  know  you  are  poor." 

"And  still  you  wish  me  to  become  your  wife?" 

"Yes,"  the  soldier  answered,  "I  do.  I  wish  to 
give  you  position  in  the  world,  and,  as  my  prospects 
are  very  flattering,  I  am  sure  you  could  never  re 
gret  becoming  my  wife." 

"You  are  very  kind  to  wish  to  change  my  posi 
tion  in  life,  but  you  must  not  insist  further  upon 
having  my  answer  now,  except  to  say  that  I  am  not 
ready  to  marry  you." 

"I  understand,"  said  he,  beginning  to  grow  im 
patient.  "I  see  who  stands  in  the  way.  It  is  Le- 
onidas  Darwood.  I  know  more  about  this  than 
you  think.  If  only  Leonidas  Darwood  stands  in 
the  way  of  you  consenting  to  become  my  wife,  con 
sider  which  of  us  is  more  likely  to  put  you  in  the 
world  where  you  deserve  to  be.  Leonidas  Darwood 
has  been  driven  from  home.  He  is  an  outcast,  and, 
to  say  the  least,  his  future  is  rather  uncertain ;  while 
my  position  is  perfectly  secure." 

The  soldier  made  the  statement  with  evident 
pride,  as  he  pointed  to  his  gray  uniform. 

"Do  you  think  that  is  certain?"  asked  Isabel,  and 
Vantine  saw  by  her  countenance  how  much  her 
question  involved. 

"Certain?  Of  course,"  said  Vantine,  emphati 
cally  ;  "as  sure  as  the  sun  shines  in  the  heavens.  The 
Confederacy  is  sure  to  succeed.  We  will  yet  have 
our  independence,  and  I  have  assurance  from  head 
quarters  that  I  shall  be  a  part  of  the  regular  estab- 


Two  SURPRISES  135 

lishment.     Of  course  you  know  what  that  means." 

"I  know,  but  upon  what  do  you  base  your  hope? 
Why  do  you  think  the  Confederate  States  will  gain 
their  independence?" 

Isabel  was  genuinely  interested  in  the  great  con 
flict,  and  also  was  delighted  with  any  turn  in  the 
conversation  that  would  relieve  her  embarrassment. 

"Have  you  not  heard,"  continued  Vantine,  "that 
our  army  is  having  great  victories,  and  that  many 
of  the  Northern  people  are  in  sympathy  with  our 
cause  and  declare  the  war  to  be  unjust — that  is,  for 
the  North?  Then,  the  powerful  nations  of  Europe 
also  wish  us  well,  and  will  soon  recognize  our  inde 
pendence.  In  England  interest  is  at  fever  heat,  and 
the  great  statesmen  are  watching  the  progress  of 
our  war,  and  are  showing  their  preference  for  our 
side.  Mr.  Gladstone  has  just  declared  that  Jeffer 
son  Davis  is  'the  Creator  of  a  Nation/  while  the 
famous  John  Bull  Russell  has  written  to  the  Lon 
don  Times  that  the  defeat  of  the  Northern  Army  at 
Fredericksburg  was  a  memorable  day  in  the  decline 
and  fall  of  the  American  Republic.' ' 

"The  fact  is,"  went  on  Vantine,  impressively, 
"the  European  nations  are  anxious  for  the  success 
of  our  cause,  as  it  means  the  dismemberment  of  the 
Union.  They  are  jealous  of  the  United  States  and 
its  wonderful  advancement,  and  would  enjoy  seeing 
two  small  nations  rather  than  one  powerful  nation 
to  dictate  the  policy  of  the  world.  Mark  me,  the 
plans  for  our  recognition  are  all  laid  by  several  of 
the  nations  of  Europe,  but  more  particularly  by 
France,  and — " 


136         IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

"France,"  interrupted  Isabel,  quickly,  "France! 
What  about  France?" 

Recalling  her  uncle's  dream  to  mind,  the  mention 
of  France  or  Frenchmen  excited  Isabel,  and  she 
could  not  resist  the  impulse  to  break  into  his  reas 
oning  at  this  point. 

"I  suppose  I  am  trusting  you  with  some  inside 
secrets,"  admitted  the  officer,  reluctantly,  "but  Na 
poleon  III,  Emperor  of  France,  has  already  sent  a 
distinguished  nobleman  to  Richmond  to  see  Presi 
dent  Davis  in  order  to  make  the  proper  arrange 
ments  for  our  recognition." 

"Who  is  this  nobleman,  and  where  is  he  now?" 
questioned  Isabel. 

"Count  de  Bussy,"  answered  Vantine,  "who  be 
came  so  distinguished  in  the  Emperor's  Italian  cam 
paign  in  1859.  He  has  now  returned  to  France 
to  report  the  negotiations  which  he  has  made;  and 
when  he  comes  to  our  country  again,  which  will  be 
soon,  we  shall  be  recognized  and  our  independence 
assured."  Continuing,  Vantine  added :  "Miss  Proc 
tor,  do  you  not  see  my  flattering  prospects  ?"  «- 

"How  strange !"  thought  Isabel.  "Count  de  Bus 
sy!  Count  de  Bussy!  That  is  the  name  on  the 
medal  Leonidas  found,  probably  on  this  very  spot. 
How  strange!  How  strange!  Count  de  Bussy! 
What  can  it  all  mean?"  She  was  lost  in  thought 
when  Vantine  spoke  again: 

"Miss  Proctor,  why  are  you  so  sad?  And  why 
do  you  still  hesitate?  I  would  be  ever  so  patient 
if  I  but  knew  you  preferred  me  to  Leonidas  Dar- 
wood." 


Two  SURPRISES  137 

"Mr.  Vantine,  you  say  Count  de  Bussy  will  soon 
come  back?"  asked  Isabel,  ignoring  his  plea. 

"Of  course  he  will  come  back,  and  that  right 
soon,"  answered  Vantine,  feeling  that  if  this  fact 
could  be  established  his  success  with  Isabel  was  as 
sured. 

"O,  I  hope  he  will.  I  hope  the  Count  will  come 
back!"  exclaimed  Isabel,  shaking  her  head,  and 
turning  quickly  she  left  the  young  Confederate 
standing  in  the  woods,  looking  in  dismay  at  her 
retreating  figure  as  it  vanished  along  the  path. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

ISABEL'S  INTEREST  IN  THE  COUNT 

AFTER  the  incident  in  the  pine  woods  Isabel,  for 
a  time,  felt  relieved  to  have  escaped  from  her  un 
pleasant  predicament.  She  nevertheless  felt  anxious 
to  hear  more  of  what  Vantine  might  have  to  say 
regarding  the  mysterious  Count,  and  what  was 
proposed  relative  to  the  recognition  of  the  Confed 
erate  Government  by  the  European  powers.  More 
particularly  was  she  concerned  about  his  absence, 
and  the  probability  of  his  speedy  return  to  Virginia. 
The  return  of  the  Frenchman  meant  everything  to 
her,  even  though  it  might  not  prove  of  vital  im 
portance  to  the  Confederacy. 

In  her  anxiety  Isabel  found  herself  longing  to 
have  the  Confederate  lieutenant  come  again  to 
Briarcrest,  even  though  his  presence  and  his  pur 
pose  were  detestable.  The  knowledge  that  Count 
de  Bussy  was  safe  in  France  would  drive  many 
haunting  fears  from  her  troubled  mind.  She  was 
desirous  of  hearing  the  news,  even  at  the  expense  of 
suffering  the  embarrassment  of  coming  into  contact 
with  Joel  Vantine,  the  enemy  of  Leonidas.  In  fact 
she  was  not  certain  that  her  desire  to  see  Vantine 
was  not  greater  than  to  see  Leonidas  himself. 

Several  days  after  Isabel  had  left  Vantine  so 
abruptly,  having  a  little  respite  from  household 


ISABEL'S  INTEREST  IN  THE  COUNT        139 

cares,  she  again  walked  down  the  sycamore  lane 
and  sat  at  the  root  of  one  of  the  large  trees  near 
the  path  that  led  through  the  woods  to  the  right 
She  was  careful  to  take  a  position  so  that  a  tree 
should  stand  between  her  and  her  uncle's  house,  but 
where  she  could  plainly  see  the  two  approaches  to 
the  farm.  She  was  expecting  Leonidas,  for  it  was 
now  several  days  since  he  had  said  he  would  come. 
She  was  reading  his  letter,  and  had  repeatedly 
scanned  the  postscript:  "I  will  come  to  Briarcrest 
soon — probably  in  a  few  days."  She  wondered  if 
he  might  not  come  while  she  waited;  and  if  he  did 
she  was  sure  he  would  come  down  the  path  through 
the  pines,  for  that  was  the  way  he  had  chosen  be 
fore. 

As  Isabel  sat  dreaming  and  listening,  with  the 
letter  at  her  side,  she  thought  of  the  possibility  of 
a  strange  coincidence.  While  thus  reflecting  she  was 
startled  by  the  tramping  of  a  horse's  feet  in  the  pine 
woods  not  far  away.  She  felt  at  once  that  it  was 
not  Leonidas,  for  he  had  no  horse.  It  might  be 
Vantine,  for,  as  an  officer  in  the  Confederate  cav 
alry,  he  must  have  a  horse.  She  brushed  her  way 
through  the  honeysuckle  and  swamp  laurel  at  the 
entrance  to  the  path,  and  was  soon  in  the  woods  to 
ascertain  who  was  approaching. 

Vantine  had  just  dismounted,  and  was  hitching 
his  sorrel  horse  to  a  sapling,  as  Isabel  emerged 
from  the  undergrowth. 

"Are  you  here,  Miss  Proctor?"  he  asked,  with 
glad  surprise.  "I  came  hoping  I  might  see  you,  and 
here  you  are,  not  far  from  where  you  left  me  so 


140         IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

abruptly  a  few  days  ago.  I'm  glad  to  see  you,  and 
I'd  rather  see  you  here  than  anywhere  else." 

"I'm  sorry  I  hurried  off  then,"  said  Isabel,  de 
murely,  "for  I  have  since  regretted  that  I  did  not 
remain  to  hear  more." 

"O,  I'm  glad  to  know  that  your  mind  has 
changed  concerning  me.  Are  you  now  willing  to 
hear  me?  May  I  tell  you  again  that  I  love  you?" 

"Will  you  not  tell  me  first  about  the  prospects  of 
which  you  spoke  the  other  day  ?"  asked  Isabel,  elud 
ing  his  embrace.  "I  am  anxious  to  know  about 
that.  After  I  left  you  I  became  more  and  more  in 
terested  in  that  part  of  the  conversation,  and  have 
been  sorry  that  I  was  so  hasty  in  leaving  you.  Will 
you  believe  me  if  I  say  I  have  been  desirous  to  see 
you  ever  since?" 

"You  delight  me,  Miss  Proctor,  by  saying  that, 
and  I  am  greatly  pleased  that  you  are  so  interested 
to  know  my  prospects.  I  honor  you  the  more  for 
your  caution.  When  I  last  saw  you,  I  confess  I 
showed  my  over-anxiety  to  win  you;  but  while  I 
am  just  as  anxious  now  I  prefer  first  to  tell  you 
about  the  bright  outlook  I  have  in  the  army  of  the 
Confederate  States,  if  you  desire  to  know." 

Isabel  wondered  if  it  were  right  to  lead  Vantine 
on  under  a  misapprehension,  but  still  she  felt  that 
she  must  know  something  more  concerning  Count 
de  Bussy,  and  Joel  Vantine  was  the  only  man  of  her 
acquaintance  who  could  tell  her  what  she  wished  to 
know.  Her  intense  desire  for  news  from  the  Count 
was  uppermost  now.  Incidentally,  Isabel  desired  to 
know  more  about  the  mysterious  foreigner's  mis- 


ISABEL'S  INTEREST  IN  THE  COUNT        141 

sion  to  the  Confederate  States;  and  as  the  young 
officer  had  the  information  she  decided  to  induce 
him  to  confide  in  her,  at  the  expense  of  hearing  his 
protestations  of  love. 

"Mr.  Vantine,  did  you  say  that  Count  de  Bussy 
has  gone  to  France,  and  that  he  would  soon  re 
turn  ?"  began  Isabel,  glancing  at  him.  "The  Count 
is  still  alive,  isn't  he,  Mr.  Vantine?" 

"Alive!  Alive!  Certainly,"  said  Vantine, 
quickly,  in  surprise.  "Who  says  he  is  dead?" 

Isabel  realized  that  she  had  asked  an  unwise  ques 
tion,  and  that  it  excited  not  a  little  wonder  in  the 
mind  of  the  soldier.  With  all  the  tact  at  her  com 
mand  she  endeavored  to  divert  the  young  man's  at 
tention  from  this  particular  point  and  elicit  the  in 
formation  she  desired  by  a  less  direct  method. 

"Why  no  one  that  I  know  of,"  answered  Isabel, 
carelessly,  "but  as  he  has  not  been  seen  lately,  and 
since  he  is  charged  with  such  grave  responsibilities, 
I  was  fearful  for  him.  That's  all." 

"I  assure  you  that  the  Count  is  safe,  and  will  soon 
return  to  Virginia  and  when  he  does,  he  will  bring 
with  him  the  proper  recognition  of  the  Confederate 
Government." 

"I  trust  he  may,"  said  Isabel,  with  a  sigh  which 
indicated  a  fear  that  it  might  not  be  so. 

"You  seem  to  doubt  the  return  of  the  Count,  Miss 
Proctor.  Why  do  you  doubt  it?" 

"It  means  so  much  to  you,"  responded  Isabel 
with  telling  effect,  "and  so  much  more  to  me,  that  it 
seems  too  good  to  be  true." 

"You  mean  that  our  interests  are  identical,"  said 


142         IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

Vantine,  joyfully,  his  eyes  kindling  with  happiness. 
"I  am  so  glad  you  think  this.  Do  I  understand  you 
correctly,  Miss  Proctor?" 

"I  am  greatly  concerned  for  the  Count — greatly 
concerned — and  am  much  interested  in  his  early  re 
turn  to  Virginia,"  said  Isabel,  hastily.  "Will  you 
now  tell  me  about  the  Count,  and  your  prospects? 
I  understand  the  mission  of  Count  de  Bussy  has 
to  do  with  the  proper  recognition  of  the  Confed 
erate  States  by  France,  and  that  your  prospects 
depend  upon  the  establishment  of  the  Confederate 
Government.  Are  you  quite  sure  it  will  come  out 
as  you  desire?" 

"There  is  no  doubt  about  it,"  protested  Vantine, 
confidently.  "This  is  the  way  of  it,  Miss  Proctor. 
You  understand  that  the  entire  French  nation  is  in 
sympathy  with  our  cause,  and  that  the  Emperor  and 
his  ministers  will  soon  recognize  our  independence. 
Count  Mercier,  the  minister  representing  the  French 
Empire  at  Washington,  is  decidedly  favorable  to 
us,  and  has  advised  Napoleon  to  interfere  on  our 
behalf  by  raising  the  blockade.  Not  long  since  he 
was  in  Richmond,  and  had  several  interviews  with 
Mr.  Benjamin.  It  was  reported  that  he  was  looking 
after  tobacco  purchased  by  French  citizens  and 
held  by  the  South,  but  that  was  only  a  ruse.  We 
know  he  will  meet  Count  de  Bussy  on  his  return 
and  complete  the  negotiations  for  our  independence. 

"In  addition  to  this,  Count  de  Morny,  who  is 
the  first  man  in  the  French  Empire  after  the  Em 
peror  himself,  told  Mr.  Rost,  our  former  represen 
tative,  and  our  present  representative,  Mr.  Slidel, 


ISABEL'S  INTEREST  IN  THE  COUNT        143 

has  the  assurance  from  the  Emperor  as  well  as 
from  Count  de  Morny,  that  but  a  short  time  will 
elapse  before  the  Confederate  States  Government 
will  be  as  legitimate  in  the  eyes  of  the  nations  as 
the  United  States  Government  now  is.  You  may 
rest  assured,  Miss  Proctor,  that  our  future  is  now 
guaranteed." 

"But  suppose  the  Emperor  fails  to  recognize  the 
South?"  inquired  Isabel.  "Is  there  not  a  suspicion 
that  he  is  reckless  in  his  promises  ?  And  may  it  not 
be  that  he  hasn't  so  much  interest  in  the  South  as  he 
pretends  to  have?" 

"His  object,  of  course,  is  to  break  up  the  Ameri 
can  Union,"  said  Vantine.  "This  can  only  be  done 
by  lending  his  influence  to  establish  the  Confed 
eracy.  This  much  he  is  sure  to  do." 

"Then  why  does  he  delay?  If  he  wants  to  do  it, 
why  does  he  not  do  it  at  once?" 

"It  is  said  that  he  is  waiting  for  General  Lee  to 
take  Washington,"  answered  Vantine;  "but  I  am 
not  sure  that  this  is  his  reason." 

"Then  what?"  demanded  Isabel.  "When  Gen 
eral  Lee  marches  his  troops  into  the  capital  of  the 
nation  there  will  be  little  need  for  Napoleon  to  in 
terfere.  The  South  will  then  be  recognized  be 
cause  it  has  conquered." 

"Of  course,  the  Emperor  of  France  will  not  wait 
for  this,"  Vantine  answered,  confidently.  "There 
are  certain  questions  of  diplomacy  which  must  be 
settled  before  the  negotiations  are  complete,  and 
that  these  are  fairly  begun,  there  is  no  doubt. 
These  questions  the  Emperor  has  entrusted  to 


144         IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

Count  de  Bussy,  and  when  he  returns  all  arrange 
ments  will  be  completed.  Then  we  shall  be  an  in 
dependent  nation — the  happiest  people  on  earth. 
Miss  Proctor,  the  thought  inspires  me." 

"But  suppose  the  Count  does  not  return,  Mr. 
Vantine?" 

Vantine  could  scarcely  fail  to  perceive  that  this 
question  was  significant,  and  of  paramount  im 
portance  to  Isabel.  Her  tone  of  voice,  and  the  sug 
gestive  expression  of  her  beautifully  sad  counte 
nance,  indicated  that  it  was  weighted  with  a  mean 
ing  which  he  could  not  understand. 

"But  he  will  come  back,"  Vantine  assured  her 
quickly.  "Why  do  you  suspect  that  this  trusted 
agent  of  the  Emperor  will  not  return?  You  seem 
to  have  grave  fears  about  it.  Will  you  tell  me  the 
reason  ?" 

"We  cannot  always  tell  what  might  happen  to  a 
man,"  replied  Isabel,  evasively,  "and  I  was  hoping 
that  nothing  had  happened,  or  would  happen,  to  pre 
vent  the  Count's  returning.  That's  all,  Mr.  Van- 
tine." 

"If  the  Emperor  fail  to  recognize  us,  and  Count 
de  Bussy  should  not  come  back,"  said  the  soldier, 
recovering  from  a  moment's  pause,  "we  will  gain 
our  independence  anyway,  for  our  army  is  being 
successful  in  the  field  and  the  Yankees  will 
soon  be  driven  over  the  line.  They  have  had  Mc 
Dowell  and  McClellan,  Hooker  and  Burnside,  but 
they  have  all  failed,  and  President  Lincoln  is  in  a 
quandary  as  to  what  to  do.  He  has  appointed  Gen 
eral  Meade,  who  attracted  his  attention  at  Freder- 


ISABEL'S  INTEREST  IN  THE  COUNT        145 

icksburg  when  Burnside  lost  the  battle,  but  it  is  not 
certain  that  he  will  continue  in  command. 

"It  is  reported  that  Lincoln  has  his  eye  on  a  man 
in  the  West  named  Grant.  Not  much  is  known 
about  him  in  the  East,  but  he  is  stirring  things  out 
there,  and  is  doing  our  cause  more  damage  than  any 
other  general,  or  than  all  of  them  combined.  I 
confess  we  are  a  little  suspicious  of  him,"  con 
tinued  Vantine,  importantly,  "as  he  seems  to  be  the 
only  one  of  their  commanders  who  is  having  much 
success.  We  fear  him,  as  he  seems  to  have  no  fail 
ures  at  all.  He  has  such  a  dogged  persistence  in 
his  fighting,  that  we  have  reason  to  wish  he  was  not 
a  factor  in  the  war.  But  if  this  man  Grant  come 
it  will  not  affect  the  result,  though  he  may  change 
conditions  somewhat.  All  their  commanders  com 
bined  would  not  be  a  match  for  our  General  Lee.  I 
trust  you  believe  this,  Miss  Proctor." 

"Y — e — e — e — s,"  said  Isabel,  though  her  ex 
pression  and  tone  belied  the  word,  "but  I  should  feel 
greatly  relieved  to  know  -that  Count  de  Bussy  would 
soon  return." 

The  young  officer  perceived  that  Isabel  Proctor 
was  not  enthusiastic ;  but  her  admission  that  she  be 
lieved  in  the  success  of  the  Confederacy,  though  it 
came  with  reluctance,  furnished  him  with  a  reason 
to  urge  his  suit  as  he  had  done  when  they  met  be 
fore. 

"Then  my  prospects  are  pretty  bright,  aren't  they, 
Miss  Proctor?  The  authorities  are  already  favor 
ing  me,"  said  Vantine,  pointing  with  pride,  first  to 
his  sleeves,  then  to  the  collar  of  his  coat.  A  few 


146         IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

days  before  the  insignia  on  the  soldier's  sleeves  had 
been  wrought  with  a  single  strip  of  brilliant  lace. 
Now  the  stripes  were  double;  and  on  his  collar 
triple  bars  of  gold  were  seen  instead  of  the  twin 
bars  of  the  lower  grade.  The  lieutenant  had  been 
promoted  to  the  rank  of  captain. 

"Y — e — e — s,  they  are,"  admitted  Isabel,  ab 
stractedly,  looking  about  her  as  if  she  expected  to 
see  some  one  approaching. 

"Then  it's  settled.  You'll  be  mine.  We  can  fix 
matters  now,"  said  Vantine,  with  genuine  delight, 
as  he  stepped  nearer  to  Isabel,  and  took  both  of  her 
hands  into  his  own. 

The  girl  turned  away  for  a  moment,  and  the 
young  Confederate  realized  there  was  no  response 
to  the  emotions  of  his  own  heart.  His  love  was  evi 
dently  genuine  and  this  lack  of  passion  pained  him. 
Her  presence  was  charming  to  him;  and  her  face 
inspired  him  to  higher  thoughts,  but  he  desired  some 
expression  of  pleasure  at  his  touch.  While  Isabel 
hesitated,  racking  her  brain  for  the  best  non-com 
mittal  response  to  what  had  just  been  said,  Vantine 
broke  the  silence. 

"Do  you  still  hesitate?  Why  do  you  turn  from 
the  man  who  loves  you  more  than  he  loves  his  own 
life?  Is  it  Leonidas  Darwood,  the  outcast,  that 
causes  you  to  hesitate?  If  you  have  told  him  you 
will  marry  him  can  you  not  recall  it?  and  should 
you  not  retract  for  your  own  good?  What  pros 
pect  has  he,  working  in  the  swamp  among  criminals 
and  negroes?" 

"Now  I  am  certain  that  you  read  my  letter,"  ex- 


ISABEL'S  INTEREST  IN  THE  COUNT        147 

claimed  Isabel.  "You  have  blundered  in  your  at 
tack  on  Mr.  Darwood.  It  is  a  mistake,  and  the 
allusion  in  your  last  question  is  not  gentlemanly,  to 
say  the  least  of  it." 

Vantine  felt  the  stunning  rebuke,  and  for  a  time 
did  not  know  just  how  to  meet  it,  but  said  finally: 
"Miss  Proctor,  you  told  me  you  were  not  engaged 
to  Leonidas  Darwood.  Is  this  true?" 

"It  is  true,  and  I  am  free  to  marry  anybody  or 
nobody,  as  I  like;  but  it  is  certain  that  I  will  not 
marry  you,  with  all  your  military  finery  and  bright 
prospects,"  said  Isabel,  with  cutting  emphasis  which 
caused  the  soldier  to  feel  the  conviction  of  her 
words.  With  a  look  of  scorn  she  snatched  away  her 
hands  from  him,  and  ran  down  the  path  in  the  di 
rection  of  the  sycamore  lane. 

A  crackling  of  sticks  and  the  rustling  of  under 
growth  indicated  that  some  one  else  was  not  far 
away  and  the  Captain  for  a  moment,  seemed 
startled,  but  looked  about  him  to  see  who  was  ap 
proaching.  He  wondered  if  this  could  explain  Isa 
bel's  sudden  flight.  The  footsteps  could  now  be 
distinctly  heard ,  and  the  voice  of  a  man  was  saying : 

"This  is  the  very  spot." 


CHAPTER  XVII 
THE  RIVALS  FACE  TO  FACE 

IN  a  moment  more,  some  one  leaped  over  the 
stream  just  back  of  where  the  soldier  stood.  He 
turned,  and  Joel  Vantine  and  Leonidas  Darwood 
were  face  to  face.  Each  was  not  a  little  surprised 
to  see  the  other  there  and  neither  spoke  at  once. 
They  seemed  to  be  trying  to  adjust  themselves  to 
the  peculiar  situation. 

"You  are  here  according  to  promise,  I  see,"  said 
the  soldier  in  rather  a  brusque  manner.  "Do  you 
always  meet  her  in  the  woods?" 

"According  to  promise?"  echoed  Leonidas  in  an 
undertone,  greatly  surprised  at  the  manner  in  which 
the  soldier  made  the  statement,  and  wondering  how 
he  could  know  that  it  was  according  to  promise  that 
he  was  at  Briarcrest.  "Yes,  according  to  promise, 
but  what  do  you  know  about  it?" 

This  was  indeed  a  question  to  Leonidas.  He  was 
perplexed  to  know  just  how  Vantine  should  be 
aware  of  his  promise  to  see  Isabel.  Had  the  soldier 
in  some  way  intercepted  his  letter,  and,  by  this 
means,  secured  the  information?  He  was  sure  of 
its  safe  delivery  to  Zeke.  The  thought  that  the  old 
slave  had  been  intentionally  unfaithful  he  would  not 
entertain.  But  might  Zeke  not  have  lost  the  letter? 
If  so,  he  had  no  way  to  communicate  the  fact.  Had 


LEONIDAS  DARWOOD 


THE  RIVALS  FACE  TO  FACE  149 

Isabel  been  thrown  with  the  soldier,  and  inadvert 
ently  given  him  the  information?  How  could  it 
have  happened  that  his  enemy  should  know  of  the 
promise  to  be  at  Briarcrest  ?  And  why  should  Van- 
tine  now  be  in  the  very  way  he  would  select  to  ap 
proach  the  farm?  And,  moreover,  near  the  spot 
where  the  medal  had  been  found  ? 

"I  know  all  about  it,"  replied  the  soldier,  in  a 
louder  and  more  insolent  tone  than  before.  "You 
promised  to  be  here  in  a  few  days,  and  I'm  glad  to 
run  across  you.  I  want  to  settle  a  few  things  with 
you,  and  there  is  no  better  place  than  this,  and  no 
better  time  than  now." 

"I  presume  many  strange  things  have  occurred 
in  these  woods,"  said  Leonidas,  looking  toward  the 
pine  under  which  he  found  the  medal.  "It  is  a  pity 
that  these  trees  and  that  stream  can't  talk.  I  have 
no  doubt  they  could  tell  a  strange  story — one  that 
would  surprise  and  alarm  you." 

"Would  it  surprise  and  alarm  you,  too?"  asked 
Vantine,  in  no  little  curiosity. 

"It  might  alarm  me,"  admitted  Leonidas,  "but  I 
should  not  be  much  surprised.  I  should  be  expect 
ing  to  hear  startling  things  if  these  woods  could 
talk.  But  what  have  you  to  settle  with  me?" 

"It  is  you  who  have  disturbed  Miss  Proctor's 
mind  about  the  return  of  Count  de  Bussy.  What 
did  you  mean  when  you  said,  'If  the  case  turn  out 
as  Dr.  Demster  thinks  it  will  be  fearful/  and  that 
you  were  forced  to  have  your  own  opinion  of  it, 
too?  You  are  an  alarmist,  my  dear  fellow.  What 
is  your  opinion  worth,  anyway? — and  that  medal, 


150         IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

belonging  to  Count  de  Bussy,  where  is  it  now?  If 
I  believed  your  story,  I  would  demand  to  see  it  on 
the  spot.  Why  do  you  not  think  the  Count  will 
come  back?" 

Leonidas  was  utterly  dumfounded  at  this  revela 
tion,  and  scarcely  knew  what  to  reply.  The  soldier 
had  gained  information  that  was  intended  for  no 
one  save  Isabel.  Had  Vantine  read  his  letter? 
How  had  he  secured  it?  Had  Isabel,  in  an  un 
guarded  moment,  revealed  to  him  its  confidences? 

"I  shall  be  glad  if  my  impressions  are  not  cor 
rect,"  said  Leonidas,  "but  I  fear  the  Count  is  not 
coming  back." 

"What  do  you  know  about  his  mission?"  asked 
Vantine,  with  open  impatience. 

"I  know  what  some  people  think  about  Napoleon's 
plan  to  recognize  Confederate  independence,"  an 
swered  Leonidas,  "and  that  Count  de  Bussy  was  the 
commissioner  sent  to  President  Davis ;  and  I  also 
know  there  are  those  who  think  he  has  gone  to 
France  to  report  the  negotiations,  and  that  he  will 
soon  return  to  complete  them,  and  you  are  among 
them,  I  presume." 

"Don't  you  believe  it?"  asked  the  soldier,  ear 
nestly.  "You  seem  to  doubt  it." 

"Yes,  I  am  compelled  to  believe  he  was  an  agent 
of  the  Emperor.  Everything  seems  to  point  in  that 
direction,  but  I  confess  I  have  my  misgivings  about 
his  return.  I  think  he  would  like  to  come  back.  He 
would  desire  to  return  to  complete  the  work  he  has 
so  well  begun,  but  I  fear  he  can't  come  back  even 
though  he  wishes  to  do  so." 


•  THE  RIVALS  FACE  TO  FACE  151 

"Will  you  tell  me  why?"  demanded  Vantine, 
sneeringly.  "Has  he  displeased  the  Emperor,  so 
that  he  has  recalled  him?  I'm  surprised  that  you 
have  this  opinion  of  so  wise  and  good  a  man  as  the 
Count  has  shown  himself  to  be." 

"I  should  be  glad  if  my  suspicions  are  not  cor 
rect,"  repeated  Leonidas.  "There  is  something 
strange  about  his  disappearance.  His  young  wife 
did  not  know  when,  or  how  he  went,  and  she  has 
been  wandering  around  the  country  nearly  crazed 
looking  for  him." 

"O,  that's  easy  to  explain,"  said  Vantine  con 
temptuously,  considering  Leonidas  stupid  for  net 
perceiving  the  reason  for  the  Count's  mysterious 
disappearance.  "If  the  Count  had  informed  any 
one  about  the  time  and  manner  of  his  departure,  it 
is  more  than  probable  that  some  one  would  have 
interfered  with  his  plans.  I  suspect  you  remember 
the  case  of  Mason  and  Slidel,  the  distinguished 
Confederate  representatives  to  London  and  Paris, 
and  how  they  were  delayed  and  embarrassed  by  the 
interference  of  an  officious  Yankee  captain.  The 
Count,  understanding  how  delicate  his  duties  are, 
concealed  the  manner  of  his  departure." 

"We  differ  as  to  our  opinion  of  the  Count's  re 
turn,"  persisted  Leonidas,  coolly.  "This  is  a  matter 
we  are  unable  to  settle.  What  is  the  next  point  of 
difference  you  wish  to  adjust?" 

Leonidas  paused  for  an  answer,  and  wondered 
what  it  might  prove  to  be,  for  he  was  now  confident 
that  Vantine  was  informed  as  to  the  contents  of  his 
letter  to  Isabel. 


152         IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

"I  desire  to  settle  the  matter  of  Miss  Proctor's 
preference,"  said  Vantine,  roughly,  after  some 
hesitancy. 

"Miss  Isabel  Proctor  alone  can  settle  mat  mat 
ter,"  returned  Leonidas  with  dignity.  "How  can 
you  settle  the  preference  of  any  young  woman? 
Miss  Proctor  has  the  right  of  choice,  and  I  don't 
see  what  either  of  us  has  to  do  with  the  matter  of 
her  choosing.  I'm  sure  I'm  willing  that  she  should 
decide  all  matters  for  herself.  What  particular 
matter  of  preference  do  you  mean?" 

"You  know  what  I  mean,"  said  Vantine  in  a 
rough,  insolent  tone,  as  he  advanced  a  step  nearer 
Leonidas.  "You  are  aware  that  I  admire  Miss 
Proctor.  I  don't  hesitate  to  say  that  I  love  her,  and 
you  think  you  stand  in  the  way  of  my  gaining  her 
affection.  I'm  free  to  say  that  I  fear  this  is  true.  If 
you  would  leave  here  and  stay  away  forever,  and 
refrain  from  your  clandestine  communications,  there 
would  be  little  or  no  doubt  of  my  success,  and " 

"My  clandestine  communications?"  questioned 
Leonidas. 

"Yes,  your  clandestine  communications,"  roared 
Vantine.  "You  seem  surprised,  but  you  know  you 
have  written  her  a  letter  in  which  I  am  savagely 
attacked.  You  tried  to  arouse  her  suspicion  con 
cerning  me  and  question  my  intentions  concerning 
her.  It's  true  mat  I  mean  no  good  to  you,  but  it  is 
not  true  concerning  Miss  Proctor.  I  mean  all  good 
to  her,  and  I  intend  to  put  her  in  the  position  she 
deserves  to  occupy.  What  can  she  expect  from  yon, 
who  are  an  outcast,  a  common  laborer  in  Dismal 


THE  RIVALS  FACE  TO  FACE  153 

Swamp  ?  You  depend  upon  Dr.  Demster  and  you'll 
come  to  grief.  That  old  chap  knows  how  to  take 
care  of  his  gold." 

"But  Miss  Proctor  will  have  to  decide  as  to  who 
shall  win  for  her  a  position  in  the  world,"  re 
sponded  Leonidas.  "It  is  she  who  will  say  how  her 
station  is  to  be  fixed.  It  will  be  neither  you  nor  I." 

"With  you  out  of  the  way  I  am  sure  that  she 
would  decide  in  my  favor,"  said  the  soldier, 
sharply,  his  face  blazing  with  indignation. 

"We  differ  again,  Captain.  I  much  prefer  that 
she  should  decide  this  matter.  If  she  prefer  a 
soldier  to  an  outcast,  I  shall  be  content.  But  in  any 
event  she  will  have  to  decide." 

"Then  you  admit  that  you  are  a  suitor?"  de 
manded  Vantine. 

"It  is  evident  that  you  read  my  letter,"  replied 
Leonidas.  "I'm  sure  I  don't  know  how  you  came 
by  it,  but  I'm  certain  that  you  know  what  I  wrote  to 
Miss  Proctor.  I  stated  just  what  was  in  my  heart 
then,  and  there  has  been  no  change  since,  so  far  as 
you  are  concerned." 

"You  did  try  to  prejudice  her  against  me,  then?" 
rejoined  Vantine. 

"I  warned  her  against  you,  I'll  admit,  as  I  shall 
do  again  when  I  am  so  fortunate  as  to  see  her. 
Your  threat  would  justify  this." 

"I  did  threaten  to  put  you  out  of  the  way,  and  I 
meant  every  word  of  it,"  said  Vantine,  flushing. 
He  suddenly  placed  his  hand  roughly  against  young 
Darwood's  shoulder  and  gave  him  a  push  backward. 

Slowly,  and  with  determined  emphasis,  as  he  re- 


154         IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

covered  himself,  Leonidas  replied:  "You  are  not 
worthy  of  so  lovely  a  girl  as  I  know  Isabel  Proctor 
to  be.  I  repeat  what  I  have " 

Before  the  declaration  could  be  repeated,  the 
young  officer  moved  back  quickly  a  pace  or  two, 
and  then  planting  one  foot  before  the  other,  drew 
his  sword,  and  held  it  within  an  inch  of  his  rival's 
breast. 

"Say  it  again,  and  you're  a  dead  man,"  he 
shouted.  "I  dare  you,  sir,  to  say  it  again.  An  out 
cast  swamp  laborer  shall  never  insult  a  Confederate 
captain  a  second  time.  Do  you  dare  repeat  it?" 

"I  repeat  it,"  replied  Leonidas,  firmly,  and  quietly 
raising  a  hickory  stick — the  one  used  in  killing  the 
rattlesnake — he  struck  the  sword  well  up  the 
blade,  sending  the  steel  jingling  through  the  pines 
and  leaving  only  the  hilt  in  the  captain's  hand.  "I 
repeat  it,  sir.  You  are  not  worthy  of  Isabel 
Proctor." 

Vantine  realized  his  disadvantage  in  the  sudden 
destruction  of  his  weapon,  and  sprang  at  Leonidas 
with  fingers  aimed  at  his  throat.  In  an  instant  the 
two  men  were  engaged  in  a  hand  to  hand  encounter. 
Leonidas  placed  his  hand  in  the  collar  of  the 
soldier's  coat,  and,  as  if  by  magic,  turned  him  half 
around,  and  drawing  him  over  his  hip  dropped  the 
officer  on  the  ground,  flat  on  his  back.  In  an  in 
stant  he  was  leaning  over  the  prostrate  form,  and 
with  one  knee  upon  his  breast,  he  said,  "Captain 
Vantine,  you  are  not  worthy  of  Miss  Proctor." 

"Don't!  Don't!  For  Heaven's  sake  don't, 
Leonidas !"  cried  a  troubled  voice  that  penetrated  the 


THE  RIVALS  FACE  TO  FACE  155 

air  and  echoed  through  the  pines.  "Don't!  For 
mercy's  sake!" 

Isabel  had  gone  only  a  short  distance,  and  had 
concealed  herself  in  the  undergrowth  where  she 
could  see  and  hear  all  that  passed  between  the  two 
men.  When  she  observed  the  anger  in  Vantine's 
face,  and  saw  him  draw  his  sword,  and  heard  him 
threaten  Leonidas,  she  became  alarmed,  and  when 
the  rivals  were  engaged  in  a  close  struggle,  with  one 
man  beneath  the  other,  she  sprang  from  the  under 
growth  and  ran  to  where  they  were  struggling,  cry 
ing,  "Don't!  For  Heaven's  sake  don't!  Do  you 
mean  to  kill  him?" 

"No,"  retorted  Leonidas,  quickly,  and  turning,  he 
was  surprised  to  find  it  was  Isabel  who  had  spoken,. 
"I  don't  mean  to  kill  him,  but  I  mean  that  he  shall 
leave  this  place  at  once." 

Addressing  Vantine,  who  was  still  on  the 
ground,  Leonidas  asked,  "Are  you  ready  to  go?" 

"A  good  soldier  always  knows  when  he  is  con 
quered,"  answered  Vantine,  reluctantly.  "You're 
the  conqueror,  and  I  am  ready  to  leave  at  your  com 
mand.  Let  me  up  and  I'll  be  off." 

Leonidas  rose  from  his  bending  position,  and  took 
his  knee  from  Vantine's  breast,  bidding  him  stand, 
but  still  holding  his  coat. 

"Will  you  go,  and  at  once  ?  But  before  you  prom 
ise,  we  will  refer  the  matter  to  Miss  Proctor.  She 
shall  decide  between  us." 

Turning  to  Isabel,  Leonidas  said:  "One  of  us 
must  go.  Which  shall  it  be?  Must  he  go,  or 
shall  I?" 


156         IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

"O,  Leonidas,  don't  leave  me,"  exclaimed  Isabel, 
imploringly,  as  she  put  her  hands  on  his  shoulder. 
"Don't  leave  me  at  the  mercy  of  this  man." 

"Captain  Vantine,  you'll  have  to  go,"  said  Leoni 
das,  slowly,  but  so  firmly  as  to  cause  the  soldier  to 
feel  the  importance  of  an  immediate  decision.  "Will 
you  go  without  assistance?" 

The  Confederate  was  soon  on  his  horse  riding  re 
luctantly  away,  muttering  and  scowling.  As  he  dis 
appeared  down  the  path  that  led  to  the  Gosport 
road,  he  cried : 

"This  is  not  settled  yet." 


CHAPTER  XVIII 
ON  THE  VERY  SPOT 

WHEN  the  sound  of  the  horse's  hoofs  had  died 
away  in  the  distance,  Leonidas  touched  Isabel  and 
beckoned  her  to  follow.  He  led  the  way  down  to 
the  branch  and  helped  her  across  at  the  very  place 
where  he  had  leaped  over  a  few  days  before.  They 
stood  in  silence  for  a  moment  under  a  huge  pint! 
tree — the  tree  about  which  so  much  centered  and 
the  one  that  was  destined  to  be  of  still  greater  in 
terest  to  Isabel. 

"This  is  an  interesting  spot  to  me,"  observed 
Leonidas,  with  an  oppressive  solemnity  about  his 
voice  that  increased  the  sadness  of  Isabel's  heart. 

"The  place  attracts  me  too,  for  it  was  here  that 
I  read  your  letter.  I  laid  it  down  on  the  ground 
when  I  read  it,  and  was  thinking  about  you.  Cap 
tain  Vantine  was  concealed  behind  the  tree  and 
read  the  letter  over  my  shoulder.  I  came  here  think 
ing  I  should  be  alone,  and  was  surprised  when  he 
disclosed  his  presence  and  handed  me  the  letter." 

"Yes,  you  have  a  reason  for  remembering  the 
place,"  admitted  Leonidas,  with  some  hesitancy, 
"but  I  fear  there  is  a  reason  of  more  importance, 
that  will  make  it  of  greater  significance  to  both  of 
us." 

"What  could  mean  more  than  your  letter?  And 
what  is  of  more  interest  than  the  way  in  which  Cap- 


158         IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

tain  Vantine  found  out  what  you  had  written?  I 
feel  heartily  ashamed  that  I  was  so  careless." 

Leonidas  took  from  the  inside  pocket  of  his  coat 
a  small  buckskin  bag  and  extracted  the  medal. 

"This  is  what  gives  the  place  such  interest.  I 
found  it  here.  It  is  the  medal  of  the  French  Legion 
of  Honor  and  it  belonged  to  Count  de  Bussy." 

"I  suppose  when  the  Count  returns  from  France," 
said  Isabel,  watching  the  face  of  her  companion  in 
tently,  "y°u  will  find  some  way  to  give  it  to  him." 

"Yes,"  replied  Leonidas,  "if  he  ever  comes  back, 
he  can  have  it,  but  I  fear  he  will  never  return  to 
claim  it." 

"Why  will  he  not  come  back?"  inquired  Isabel, 
anxiously,  yet  dreading  his  reply. 

"I  fear  to  tell  you  all  I  suspect,"  Leonidas  an 
swered,  sadly. 

"Tell  me  the  worst,  Leonidas,"  taking  the  medal 
in  her  hand  and  turning  it  over  several  times.  "It 
was  Count  de  Bussy's,  for  here's  his  name." 

As  the  girl  uttered  the  name  of  the  French  Count 
she  looked  pitifully  at  Leonidas,  and  overcome  by 
suppressed  fear  sank  at  the  root  of  the  tree. 

"It  was  the  Count's " 

"Tell  me  the  worst,"  Isabel  insisted.  "I  must 
know." 

"You  have  a  right  to  know,"  answered  Leonidas, 
"but  can  you  hear  it  now?" 

"Tell  me,"  replied  Isabel,  feebly,  "I  can  bear 
anything  better  than  this  torture." 

"It's  this  way,"  began  Leonidas.  "This  medal 
belonged  to  Count  de  Bussy  up  to  the  time  of  his 


ON  THE  VERY  SPOT  159 

disappearance  a  short  time  ago.  You  know  he  has 
not  been  seen  since  the  day  of  the  eclipse.  Upon 
that  day  I  have  reason  to  believe  he  was  here,  where 
now  we  are,  and  came  to  his  death  under  this  tree. 
There  was  a  struggle,  and  in  the  struggle  this  medal 
was  pulled  from  his  breast  and  was  overlooked. 
It  was  covered  with  pine  needles  and  dirt,  but  I 
uncovered  it  accidentally  and  the  finding  of  it  has 
raised  many  questions  and  fears." 

"He  came  to  an  untimely  end?  How  did  it 
occur?" 

Isabel  Proctor  turned  as  pale  as  death,  and  her 
bloodless  lips  trembled,  as  she  waited  for  an  answer, 
fearing  meanwhile  she  knew  what  the  answer 
would  be,  and  fearing  too,  what  the  answer  might 
involve. 

"I  have  every  reason  to  think  that  Count  de  Bus- 
sy  was  murdered  right  here,"  said  Leonidas,  "and 
that  is  the  reason  why  the  medal  was  on  this  spot." 

"Murdered!    Murdered!"  gasped  Isabel. 

"Of  course,  I  am  not  absolutely  certain,"  said  Le 
onidas,  wishing  to  break  the  truth  gently  to  her, 
"but  I  have  every  reason  to  think  so.  Uncle  Zeke, 
has  strange  feelings  about  this  tree  and  stream,  and 
declares  he  has  seen  a  ghost  here.  He  says,  how 
ever,  he  never  saw  it  before  the  day  of  the  eclipse. 
On  this  account  he  urged  me  not  to  come  into  the 
woods,  and  became  almost  frantic  when  I  smiled 
at  the  idea  of  seeing  a  ghost.  Besides,  here  is  a 
spot  on  the  ribbon  attached  to  this  medal.  Dr.  Dem- 
ster  has  examined  it  under  a  microscope  and  says 
it  is  a  blood  stain.  He  could  not  say  definitely  that 


160         IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

it  was  human  blood,  as  human  blood  so  closely  re 
sembles  that  of  some  of  the  lower  animals,  but  the 
chances  are  that  it  is  the  blood  of  a  man,  and  not  of 
a  beast,  Isabel,  I  am  persuaded  that  this  spot  of 
blood  came  from  the  Count's  wound  when  he  was 
murdered.  And  I  suspect  the  whole  truth  will  some 
day  be  known." 

"I  have  tried  to  persuade  myself  that  the  Count 
would  come  back,  but  you  think  he  has  been  mur 
dered.  May  you  not  be  mistaken?"  implored  Isa 
bel. 

"I  may,"  admitted  Leonidas,  "but  why — " 

"The  Confederacy,  the  Confederacy,"  gasped 
Isabel,  hoping  Leonidas  would  not  suspect  her  of 
having  any  other  reason. 

"If  the  independence  of  the  Confederacy  depend 
upon  the  return  of  Count  de  Bussy,  then  the  Con 
federacy  is  already  doomed,"  responded  Leonidas, 
"and  it  met  its  fate  on  this  very  spot." 

"At  whose  hands?  Who  is  the  murderer  of 
Count  de  Bussy,  and  the  despoiler  of  our  freedom  ?" 

"Maybe,  after  all,  the  Confederacy  will  pull 
through,  even  if  the  Count  has  been  murdered,"  an 
swered  Leonidas,  evasively.  "Let  us  hope  for  the 
best.  I  am  sure  it  looks  encouraging  without  the 
aid  of  France." 

"Mr.  Darwood,  who  murdered  Count  de  Bussy?" 
Isabel  demanded.  "Who  could  have  murdered  him 
here  on  my  Uncle  Gabriel's  farm  ?" 

"I  simply  have  an  opinion,"  replied  Leonidas, 
"and  I  trust  I  am  mistaken.  It  is  so  easy  to  entertain 
a  false  notion  that  I  am  always  willing  to  admit 


ON  THE  VERY  SPOT  161 

that  I  am  mistaken.  My  opinion  may  be  all  wrong, 
and  I  shall  reserve  it  until  I  know  more  than  I  do 
at  present.  A  train  of  circumstances  seems  to  point 
the  way  to  the  murderer  of  the  Count,  but  then  cir 
cumstances  are  often  deceptive  and  lead  to  wrong 
conclusions.  I  do  not  think  it  quite  right  to  judge 
anyone  from  circumstances  at  any  time.  No,  I 
don't  know  who  murdered  the  Count,  and  from 
what  information  I  have  I'm  unwilling  to  adjudge 
anyone  guilty  of  the  crime.  I  am  willing  now  to 
say  only  that  I  am  convinced  of  Count  de  Bussy's 
untimely  death,  and  that  he  was  murdered  on  this 
very  spot." 

"I  must  know,  though  I  fear  it  may  be  the 
worst,"  said  Isabel,  in  a  trembling  voice,  the  tears 
gathering  and  streaming  down  her  face. 

Though  Isabel  manifested  great  concern  for  the 
Confederacy  Leonidas  felt  that  there  was  some 
thing  in  her  thought  deeper  even  than  this.  Had 
it  been  for  the  Confederacy  alone  she  was  con 
cerned  her  feeling  would  have  been  that  of  indig 
nation,  but  she  was  not  indignant.  She  was  anx 
ious,  nervous,  fearful  and  sad. 

What  was  it  that  was  affecting  her  so  seriously? 
Was  it  that  she  knew  of  the  death  of  Count  de 
Bussy,  and  was  sure  he  would  not  return?  Was 
she  convinced  of  his  murder?  And  did  she  suspect 
who  had  slain  him?  Leonidas  discerned  the  train 
of  her  reasoning,  and  followed  it  to  its  inevitable 
conclusion.  He  could  readily  understand  the  cause 
of  her  troubled  mind.  He  made  an  effort  to  divert 
her  attention. 


162         IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

"Come,  Isabel,"  said  Leonidas,  with  all  the  ten 
derness  of  a  young  lover,  "let  us  think  and  talk 
about  something  more  pleasant.  I  came  to  see  you, 
not  to  make  you  unhappy;  though  I  felt  that  you 
should  know  my  opinion  of  the  disappearance  of 
Count  de  Bussy.  I  thought  my  coming  would  give 
you  pleasure.  Did  you  expect  me?  Is  that  why 
you  were  in  the  woods?" 


CHAPTER  XIX 
LOVE-MAKING 

Now  that  the  time  had  come  when  Leonidas  was 
again  with  Isabel  he  wondered  if  it  were  to  be  the 
glad  hour  that  he  had  anticipated  since  she  left  him 
in  Zeke's  cabin  the  morning  after  the  great  storm. 
He  had  looked  forward  to  the  meeting  with  great 
pleasure;  for  he  expected  to  reassure  her  of  his 
devotion,  and  he  dared  to  hope  that  there  would  be 
left  no  uncertainty  as  to  hers.  He  remembered, 
however,  that  Isabel  had  never  admitted  her  love 
for  him.  That  she  really  loved  him,  he  was  con 
fident,  but  that  she  would  allow  herself  to  express 
this  emotion  so  soon  he  had  grave  doubts.  Man 
like,  he  did  not  realize  that  Isabel  would  have  any 
scruples  about  revealing  her  feelings  to  him  as 
plainly  as  he  had  done  to  her. 

If  suspense  be  suffering,  Leonidas  certainly  suf 
fered.  There  was  a  possibility  that  Isabel,  on  ac 
count  of  the  very  serious  condition  of  her  uncle's 
health  and  what  had  led  to  this  state,  might  en 
deavor  to  place  some  barrier  between  them.  Then 
the  discovery  of  the  medal  and  all  that  it  implied 
might,  in  the  eyes  of  Isabel,  be  deemed  sufficient 
cause  for  denying  her  love  and  refusing  to  accept 
his.  At  any  rate,  if  they  remained  on  the  very 
scene  of  the  murder,  Leonidas  feared  that  it  would 
be  impossible  to  divert  her  mind  from  the  horrible 


164         IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

tragedy,  so  he  decided  it  would  be  wise  to  conclude 
their  visit  in  some  other  part  of  the  woods. 

"Come,  Isabel,  let  us  leave  this  unhappy  place. 
Cannot  we  talk  of  something  more  cheerful  ?" 

Leonidas  bent  forward  and  took  her  by  the  hand, 
and  their  eyes  met.  He  was  confident  that  she 
could  not  misread  the  eloquence  of  his,  but  what 
was  the  meaning  of  hers?  Their  predominant  ex 
pression  was  sadness,  and  this  shone  forth  from  a 
troubled  soul.  If  love  were  there  it  was  for  the 
time  obscured,  and  Leonidas  could  not  detect  its 
presence. 

"I  am  ready  to  leave  this  horrid  place,"  said 
Isabel,  shuddering,  and  glancing  about  as  she  spoke. 

Leonidas  placed  his  hands  beneath  her  elbows 
and  fairly  lifted  her  to  her  feet.  The  two  went 
slowly  down  the  path  in  the  direction  of  the  syca 
more  lane.  They  walked  in  silence  to  a  spot  where 
a  dogwood  tree  and  a  swamp  laurel  intertwined 
their  limbs  across  the  way,  just  overhead.  Here 
they  paused,  looking  about  them  in  every  direction, 
and  finally  sat  upon  the  body  of  a  black  gum  tree 
which  had  been  rolled  from  the  undergrowth  with 
in  a  foot  or  two  of  the  path.  A  moment  passed  be 
fore  the  silence  was  broken,  and  it  might  have  been 
more  protracted  had  not  a  red-bird,  disturbed  by 
their  coming,  jumped  from  the  dogwood  to  the  lau 
rel,  and  thence  to  the  ground.  The  bird  was  not 
frightened,  for  it  hopped  about  and  played  in  front 
of  them,  just  across  the  path. 

"How  happy  the  bird  seems,"  remarked  Le 
onidas  at  last.  "Nothing  worries  it.  If  a  disturb- 


LOVE-MAKING  165 

ance  is  caused  in  one  place  it  simply  hops  to  an 
other  and  forgets  what  aroused  it." 

"Yes,"  sighed  Isabel,  "a  bird  is  always  happy  be 
cause  it  knows  so  little  and  remembers  less.  If 
we  didn't  know  quite  so  much  of  what  is  going  on, 
and  could  at  desire  forget  the  thing  that  happened 
yesterday,  we  might  be  happy,  too.  Knowledge  is 
not  always  conducive  to  happiness." 

"What  knowledge  have  you  that  makes  you  so 
unhappy?" 

"It  may  not  be  knowledge  after  all;  it  may  be 
only  belief.  But,  nevertheless,  I  am  unhappy  in 
it." 

"What  belief?"  asked  Leonidas. 

"You  have  compelled  me  to  believe  that  Count 
de  Bussy  is  dead.  I  hoped  he  had  only  gone  to 
France  for  a  short  time,  as  Captain  Vantine  said; 
but  since  you  have  shown  me  the  medal,  with  its 
blood  spot,  I  can  no  longer  persuade  myself  to  be 
lieve  he  is  alive.  To  think  he  is  dead,  and  that  he 
was  foully  murdered  here  on  my  uncle's  farm,  is 
enough  to  make  me  worry ;  isn't  it  ?  If  I  could  be 
lieve  he  is  alive,  it  would  be  a  tremendous  relief  to 
me,  I  assure  you." 

"He  is  not  alive,"  said  Leonidas  with  sad  em 
phasis,  "but  can't  you  hope  for  the  Confederacy 
even  though  the  Count  is  dead?  Surely  all  doesn't 
depend  upon  him." 

Isabel  remained  in  thought  and  Leonidas  con 
tinued  : 

"Besides,  has  it  occurred  to  you  that  though  the 

Confederacy  should  gain  its  independence  it  might 

11 


166         IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

soon  meet  with  disaster?  You  know  the  war  is 
being  fought,  not  because  of  slavery,  but  because 
the  right  of  the  state  to  govern  its  own  affairs  is 
being  questioned  by  the  National  Government.  We 
claim  that  a  state  has  the  right  to  secede  from 
the  Union.  Now,  if  that  right  is  sustained  by  the 
issues  of  this  war,  then  any  state  will  have  the 
same  right  to  withdraw  from  the  Confederacy.  It 
is  more  than  likely  that  something  will  occur  to  dis 
please  some  state — say  South  Carolina — and  this 
will  cause  another  secession.  Sentiment  and  com 
mon  safety  may  hold  us  together  for  a  time,  but 
sentiment  is  not  strong  enough  to  bind  us  when 
the  local  interest  of  the  state  is  involved.  It  is 
not  at  all  certain  that  the  individual  states  will  sur 
render  all  their  sovereign  rights  in  order  to  main 
tain  the  Confederacy.  I  shall  be  sorry  to  see  it, 
but  I  fear  the  Confederacy  will  go  to  pieces  like  a 
rope  of  sand." 

"Mr.  Darwood,  Mr.  Darwood,  the  Confederacy 
is  dear  to  me,"  said  Isabel,  "and  I  pray  that  it  will 
win  in  this  conflict.  I  would  give  my  life  for  it.  But 
there  is  a  matter  that  concerns  me  greatly  now — if 
possible,  more  than  the  Confederacy;  for  I  believe 
the  Confederacy  will,  sooner  or  later,  be  established, 
permanently.  There  is  a  wrong  which  I  fear  can 
never  be  righted,  and — " 

"Indeed!"  exclaimed  Leonidas,  fearing  that  he 
knew  just  what  was  troubling  her.  "Indeed!  do 
you  mind  telling  me  what  it  is  that  so  disturbs  you  ?" 

"I  am  not  so  much  concerned  about  the  fact  of 
Count  de  Bussy's  death,  unfortunate  as  that  is,  as  I 


LOVE-MAKING  167 

am  about  the  manner  of  his  death,"  replied  Isabel, 
sorrowfully.  "To  think  he  was  murdered;  and  on 
my  uncle's  farm ;  and  by  whom  ?  The  thought  over 
whelms  me,  Leonidas,  and  I  can't  help  it." 

Leonidas  now  realized  that  unless  a  great  effort 
were  made  to  turn  Isabel's  thought  into  another 
channel  she  would  think  and  talk  of  the  murder  of 
the  unfortunate  Count. 

He  moved  closer  to  her  side,  and  gently  taking 
her  right  hand  in  his  placing  his  left  upon  her 
shoulder.  After  a  moment,  during  which  neither 
spoke,  he  raised  her  hand,  apparently  without  know 
ing  it,  and  pressed  it  tightly  to  his  breast,  whisper 
ing,  "Isabel,  I  love  you."  Without  a  word  she 
turned  toward  him  and  looked  into  his  eyes. 

"I  know  you  love  me,  Leonidas,"  Isabel  an 
swered,  sadly,  "but  I  am  tempted  to  say  I'm  sorry 
it  is  true." 

"Why,  Isabel !"  he  exclaimed  in  surprised  alarm ; 
"why  are  you  sorry  that  I  love  you  ?" 

"On  your  account,  not  mine,"  responded  Isabel, 
her  tone  of  voice  indicating  a  meaning  that  was 
deeper  than  the  words. 

So  perplexed  was  Leonidas  at  this  unexpected 
statement  that  he  removed  his  hand  from  her 
shoulder,  and  turned  half  around  to  look  her  direct 
ly  in  the  face,  before  he  could  determine  how  best 
to  answer  this  amazing  reason. 

"Tell  me  what  you  mean,  Isabel.  I  did  not  expect 
this  when  I  came.  I  hoped  you  would  be  glad  to 
see  me,  and  that  we  should  part  with  a  perfect 
understanding.  Tell  me  what  you  mean." 


1 68         IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

"To  be  candid,"  Isabel  answered,  firmly,  "I  mean 
that  it  is  a  great  pity  for  you  to  love  me,  because 
you  have  shown  yourself  to  be  worthy  of  the  best 
woman  that  lives  and  I  am  not  fit  for  you.  It  is 
indeed  a  great  pity.  You  should  love  some  one 
whose  love,  if  returned,  would  not  embarrass  you." 

"You  are  worthy,  dearest  Isabel,"  exclaimed  Le- 
onidas  in  a  tone  of  relief;  for  he  realized  that  her 
sense  of  unworthiness  arose  only  from  her  modesty 
and  self-depreciation.  "That  matter  was  settled 
when  I  left  home.  Please  don't  think  of  it  again." 

"No,"  she  protested,  "I  am  not  the  person  upon 
whom  you  should  bestow  your  affection.  Had  you 
not  better  leave  me  now,  and  forever?  I  suggest 
this  for  your  own  good,  not  mine." 

"O,  Isabel,  Isabel,  I  cannot  bear  to  hear  this  from 
your  lips !"  exclaimed  Leonidas,  sadly.  "You  should 
not  say  such  words.  Do  not  bid  me,  for  I  will 
not  go." 

"No,  I  do  not  bid  you  to  leave  me,  Leonidas,  but 
I  am  sure  it  would  be  far  better  for  you  should  you 
do  so." 

"How  strangely  you  talk,  dearest,"  answered  Le 
onidas.  "Do  you  not  know  that  I  love  you,  and 
that  it  would  break  my  heart  and  blight  my  life 
forever  if  you  sent  me  away?" 

"Could  you  not  soon  forget  me?  Many  a  man 
has  loved  a  woman  truly,  and  protested  as  you  do 
now,  but  when  the  separation  came,  the  wound  was 
soon  healed,  and  they  were  both  happy." 

"Would  you  be  happy  in  such  a  case,  Isabel  ?" 

"Happy !    No.    I  may  never  be  happy  again,"  re- 


LOVE-MAKING  169 

plied  Isabel,  "and  it  is  for  this  reason  that  I  think 
it  better  for  you  to  leave  me.  It  is  not  well  for  a 
noble  life  like  yours  to  be  blighted  by  an  unfortu 
nate  alliance  with  an  unhappy  woman.  I  am  not 
willing  that  it  should  be  so.  It  is  enough  that  one 
of  us  should  be  doomed  to  perpetual  unhappiness 
in  this  life.  I  confess  I  am  unhappy,  and  I  fear  I 
shall  never  be  otherwise." 

"But,  Isabel,  listen  to  me,"  insisted  Leonidas.  "I 
love  you,  and  would  give  my  life  for  you.  Are  you 
not  willing  that  I  should  make  your  life  happy? 
Is  it  no  comfort  that  I  love  you?" 

"Leonidas,  I  know  you  love  me.  You  have 
shown  it  in  many  ways.  But  be  patient  and  hear 
what  I  say.  You  will  be  far  better  off  not  to  love 
me.  I  am  a  very  unfortunate  girl." 

"What  do  you  mean?  What  do  you  mean,  Isa 
bel?" 

"My  Uncle  Ga — ,"  gasped  Isabel.  "My  Uncle 
Gabriel.  Don't  you  understand?" 

"But  you  may  be  happy  in  spite  of  him,  if  you 
only  will." 

"Not  in  spite  of  him.  My  uncle,  my  Uncle  Ga 
briel,"  repeated  Isabel,  feebly,  stopping  abruptly 
lest  she  might  betray  too  much  feeling  and  com 
municate  more  to  Leonidas  than  was  necessary. 

"Listen  to  me,  Isabel.  I  know  something  of  your 
uncle.  I  know  he  dislikes  the  idea  of  my  coming 
to  Briarcrest  to  see  you  or  Uncle  Zeke.  Indeed, 
from  what  you  heard  between  him  and  the  strange 
man,  who  is  no  other  than  Jack  Mobaly,  it  is  clear 
that  the  two  men  are  plotting  against  me.  If  they 


170         IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

could  they  would  run  me  off  into  the  swamp  and 
hold  me  there  until  I  promise  to  leave  Tidewater 
never  to  return.  I  don't  fear  them,  though.  Don't 
let  your  uncle's  feeling  toward  me  cause  you  any 
sadness  or  make  you  feel  that  you  are  so  unfor 
tunate." 

"Yes,  my  uncle  hates  you,"  admitted  Isabel,  "and 
I  fear,  with  that  vile  man,  is  plotting  your  ruin. 
But  if  you  cease  to  pay  attention  to  me,  and  keep 
away  from  here,  he  will  not  have  the  same  reason 
to  do  you  an  injury.  Do  you  not  think  I  am  wise? 
Isn't  it  better  for  you  not  to  love  a  girl  who  is  the 
niece  of  such  a  wicked  man  ?" 

"You  are  not  responsible  for  the  conduct  of  your 
uncle,  and  should  not  be  compelled  to  suffer  for 
anything  he  does.  No  matter  how  wicked  he  is 
it  will  not  change  my  love  for  you.  Believe  me, 
Isabel.  I  will  love  and  cherish  you,  no  matter 
what  your  uncle  is." 

"But  you  speak  unadvisedly,"  expostulated  Isa 
bel.  "You  don't  know  how  wicked  he  is,  and  what 
he  has  done,  and  what  he  may  do  in  the  future. 
Suppose  he  should  bring  disgrace  on  his  name; 
do  you  not  see  how  unfortunate  it  would  be  that 
you  ever  loved  me?  Suppose  my  uncle  should  have 
taken  human  life;  what  then?" 

"Still  I  say,  you  should  not  be  made  to  suffer 
for  the  sins  of  your  uncle,"  replied  Leonidas,  firmly 
and  emphatically. 

"But  that  is  not  the  way  with  society.  You 
know  I  should  be  discounted  forever  in  social  life 
on  my  uncle's  account." 


LOVE-MAKING  171 

"True,  but  I'm  at  variance  with  society  in  that 
particular,  as  you  know.  I  love  and  honor  you ;  and 
honor  you  the  more  for  raising  the  question.  But 
will  you  not  dismiss  it,  and  never  raise  it  again?" 

"You  are  generous,  and  hot-headed,  Leonidas, 
but  I  still  say  it  is  not  right  for  a  young  man  to 
blight  his  life  and  ruin  his  prospects  by  an  alliance 
with  a  girl  who  is  disgraced.  Is  it?" 

"I  can  answer  you,  Isabel,  if  I  but  know  but  one 
thing." 

"Well,  what  is  the  one  thing  you  wish  to  know  ?" 
asked  Isabel,  falteringly.  "What  is  the  one  point 
upon  which  so  much  depends?" 

"Does  the  unfortunate  girl  love  the  young  man 
who  proposes  to  become  a  martyr  for  her  sake?" 
questioned  Leonidas.  "This  is  the  one  thing  I 
should  like  to  know." 

"Suppose  she  does,"  responded  Isabel  in  a  whis 
per,  still  keeping  her  eyes  turned  down. 

"Isabel,  do  you  love  me?  Tell  me:  do  you  love 
me?" 

"Y-e-e-s,"  she  breathed,  softly,  as  Leonidas  drew 
her  into  his  arms  and  kissed  her  gently. 

They  sat  in  silence  a  few  minutes,  and  at  length 
he  glanced  down  into  her  beautiful  face  as  she 
turned  her  head  upward  and  met  his  gaze. 

"You'll  forgive  me,  won't  you,  Isabel?" 

"You  are  forgiven,  Leonidas.  You  were  for 
given  before  you  did  it,"  she  whispered. 

Isabel  presently  realized  for  the  first  time  since 
coming  into  the  woods  that  it  was  getting  late,  and 
that  she  must  return  to  the  house.  The  meeting 


172         IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

with  Vantine,  the  interest  excited  by  the  disappear 
ance  of  Count  de  Bussy  and  the  speculations  con 
cerning  his  return,  together  with  the  doubtful  pros 
pects  of  the  Confederacy,  had  been  so  painfully 
engrossing  to  her  that  she  had  forgotten  how  the 
hours  had  slipped  away.  Then  the  coming  of  Le- 
onidas  upon  the  scene,  and  his  encounter  with  the 
soldier,  and  what  followed  when  she  was  alone 
with  the  man  she  loved,  had  caused  her  to  be  totally 
oblivious  to  time. 

They  arose  to  depart  and  stood  facing  each  other. 
Leonidas  took  Isabel's  face  between  his  hands,  and 
holding  it  for  a  moment  bent  over  until  their  lips 
met. 


CHAPTER  XX 
THE  STRANGE  WOMAN. 

WHO  is  coming?"  asked  Isabel,  softly.  "It's  a 
woman,  and  how  strange  she  looks !  What  can  she 
want  in  these  lonely  woods?  Besides,  it  is  nearly 
night.  See  what  she  wants,  Leonidas.  The  poor 
thing  may  have  lost  her  way.  She  looks  frightened. 
I  pity  her,  for  she  seems  to  be  unhappy." 

They  had  walked  slowly  together  toward  the 
edge  of  the  pines,  where  Leonidas  would  be  con 
cealed  from  view  and  still  be  able  to  see  Isabel  un 
til  she  had  entered  the  house.  They  had  at  last 
spoken  their  word  of  farewell,  and  had  just  ar 
ranged  the  time  when  they  should  meet  again,  when 
their  attention  was  attracted  to  some  one  approach 
ing  through  the  woods.  As  the  woman  came  near 
er  Leonidas  thought  he  recognized  her  as  some 
one  he  had  seen  before. 

"Her  face  is  familiar,  but  I  cannot  place  her," 
said  Leonidas,  turning  to  Isabel,  and  speaking  in 
an  undertone. 

"But  where  did  you  see  her?"  asked  Isabel, 
quickly,  before  the  woman  came  near  enough  to 
hear  what  was  being  said. 

"At  the  Creek,  the  evening  after  the  big  storm. 
She  looked  wild  and  anxious  then,  and  she  appears 
to  be  so  now.  I'm  sure  it  is  the  same  woman.  See 
how  she  is  looking  around  in  every  direction. 


174         IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

She  did  that  at  the  Creek  also,  and  seemed  to  look 
from  one  person  to  another  as  quickly  as  possible. 
I  am  sure  she  was  searching  for  some  one.  It  is 
true  I  was  busy  with  the  bear,  but  still  I  could  not 
help  noticing  the  woman.  And  it  just  occurs  to 
me  who  she  is." 

"Who?"  questioned  Isabel,  but  the  woman  was 
now  too  near  for  Leonidas  to  answer. 

There  had  been  a  well-dressed  woman  at  Deep 
Creek  the  day  the  market  folk  from  Carolina  had 
crowded  the  village.  She  stood  on  the  edge  of  the 
company  and  had  witnessed  the  struggle  in  which 
Ezra  was  rescued  from  the  bear.  Her  peculiar 
unrest  and  the  ever-searching  gaze  had  attracted 
attention.  It  was  she  whom  Jack  Mobaly  had 
brushed  roughly  aside  when  he  disappeared  after 
his  cruel  act.  Leonidas,  of  course,  never  expected 
to  see  her  again,  but  he  was  sure  that  this  was  the 
woman.  She  came  nearer,  and  Leonidas  said: 

"Madam,  have  you  lost  your  way?  Can  we  help 
you?  We  are  at  your  service,  if  you  need  our  as 
sistance.  Are  you  looking  for  some  one?" 

As  they  waited  for  an  answer  Leonidas  realized 
that  he  might  have  known  that  she  was  not  one 
of  the  market  folk  because  she  was  so  much  better 
attired.  He  was  satisfied  that  her  presence  there 
at  that  time  was  of  unusual  import,  though  no  one 
seemed  to  know  anything  regarding  her. 

"O,  that  I  might  find  him !  That  I  might  find !" 
she  cried,  wringing  her  hands  frantically.  "Can 
you  tell  me  where  he  is?" 

"Whom  do  you  seek?"  asked  Leonidas. 


THE  STRANGE  WOMAN  175 

"Count  de  Bussy!  Count  de  Bussy!"  cried  the 
woman.  "I  seek  my  husband,  Count  de  Bussy!" 

She  paused  for  a  moment,  and  looked  around  in  a 
dazed  manner  before  speaking  again.  Her  speech 
was  incoherent,  but  eloquent  with  sadness. 

"My  husband,  the  Count — he  is  gone.  I  can't 
find  him.  I've  looked  everywhere.  Nobody 
knows.  He's  gone.  They  said  he  wasn't  good — 
that  he  was  a  pretender.  But  it  isn't  true.  He 
was  a  Count — belonged  to  the  Legion  of  Honor. 
He  had  the  medal  with  his  name  on  it,  and  papers 
in  his  pocket.  He  was  a  Count;  Napoleon  sent 
him.  He  went  to  President  Davis  and  Mercier. 
He  is  gone  and  doesn't  come  back.  Have  you  seen 
him  ?  They  say  he  came  into  the  woods,  and  he  has 
not  been  seen  since.  They  tell  me  he  has  gone  to 
France,  and  will  soon  come  back.  He  could  not 
do  so.  Those  wicked  men  won't  let  him  come 
back  to  me.  The  Count;  have  you  seen  him? 
Have  you  seen  the  Count?" 

The  rehearsal  of  this  weird  story  of  the  strange 
woman  excited  Isabel  intensely,  and  disturbed  Le- 
onidas  not  a  little.  The  reference  to  Napoleon 
and  the  paper  prompted  him  to  ask:  "Did  you  say 
that  Napoleon  sent  him?  And  that  he  had  papers 
in  his  pockets?" 

"Sent  him  to  President  Davis,"  said  the  woman. 
"The  papers  told  him  what  to  do." 

"Do  you  remember  what  he  was  to  do?" 

She  broke  into  a  flood  of  grief,  and  soon  became 
hysterical,  alternating  between  weeping  and  laugh 
ing.  Presently  she  screamed:  "The  Count!  The 


176         IN  THE  SHADOW  OP  THE  PINES 

Count!     To  break  the  Union — to  set  the  Confed 
eracy  free." 

The  woman  suddenly  dashed  through  the  woods 
in  the  way  she  had  come.  As  the  hour  would  ad 
mit  of  no  more  delay  Leonidas  and  Isabel  parted 
too,  with  a  promise  to  meet  at  the  gum  log  on  the 
afternoon  of  the  next  day. 


CHAPTER   XXI 
A  PLOT  DISCLOSED 

"JES  yer  wait  er  minit,  Mars  Lonny,"  shouted 
Zeke,  as  the  signal  knocks  were  distinctly  heard 
on  the  cabin  door,  "I  knows  dat's  yer,  Mars  Lonny, 
but  Zeke  kain't  hurry,  kaise  I's  got  de  rumatiz  an' 
Fs  'mos  dead.  Wait  er  minit,  Mars  Lonny,  I's 
'mos  dar." 

The  old  slave  hobbled  across  the  room  and  threw 
the  door  open.  Leonidas  stepped  in  and  quickly 
closed  it.  He  had  spent  the  early  part  of  the  even 
ing  in  the  pine  woods,  and  at  sunset  hurried  off 
to  Zeke's  cabin  to  spend  an  hour  or  two  with  his 
old  friend  before  making  his  way  back  to  the 
Creek. 

"Well,  Uncle  Zeke,"  began  Leonidas,  "I  have 
had  several  adventures  since  I  saw  you.  The  man 
I  sent  with  the  letter  is  now  my  friend,  and  Dr. 
Demster  has  almost  adopted  me." 

"Mars  Lonny,"  said  Zeke,  "I  wants  ter  hyar 
'bout  dat  sum  udder  time.  I's  got  sumthin'  fer 
ter  tell  yer,  dat  I  wants  yer  ter  hyar,  chile.  I's 
bin  dyin'  ter  see  yer  sence  las'  night.  I's  bin  right 
smart  an'  scyard — deed  I  has." 

"What  have  you  to  tell  me,  Uncle  Zeke?  Some 
thing  more  about  that  ghost  down  by  the  branch  in 
the  pine  woods?" 

"No,  Mars  Lonny,"  replied  Zeke,  hurriedly,  "Fs 
got  sumthin'  else  fur  ter  tell  yer  now.  I's  gwine 


178         IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

ter  tell  yer  'bout  dat  ghost  sum  udder  time.  Zeke 
hain't  gwine  ter  live  long,  Mars  Lonny.  I  feels 
right  lak  gwine  into  de  big  ribber  sumtimes,  an' 
befoe  I  dize  I's  got  sumthin'  ter  tell,  an'  it's  'bout 
dat  ghost  what  I  seed  down  dar  in  dat  pine  woods ; 
but  dat  hain't  what  I  wants  ter  tell  yer  now." 

Leonidas  observed  that  Uncle  Zeke  was  becom 
ing  agitated,  just  as  was  the  case  when  he  had  first 
related  the  story  of  the  ghost,  and  it  was  apparent 
that  the  old  man  was  now  showing  quite  as  much 
interest  as  when  he  pleaded  with  him  not  to  go 
into  the  pine  woods. 

"What  is  the  other  matter  that  concerns  you  so 
much?" 

"Mars  Lonny,"  said  Zeke,  "I  wants  ter  tell  yer 
dat  Mars  Gabel  Arnold  knows  dat  yer  bin  hyar, 
an'  he's  mighty  mad  an'  scyard  'bout  it  too.  I  tells 
yer  he  don't  want  "yer  ter  cum  round  hyar.  I  jes 
think  he's  gwine  ter  do  sumthin'  weeked  ter  yer 
ef  he  gits  er  chance.  So  I  wants  ter  tell  yer,  an'  yer 
kin  jes  keep  out'n  his  way.  He  an'  dat  strange  man 
is  watchin'  fur  yer  all  de  time.  Da  am  bofe  so 
bad  dat  da  am  mean  enuff  ter  kill  yer  or  take 
yer  off  ter  de  swamp.  Look  out  fur  urn,  Mars 
Lonny,  I  ax  yer." 

"Why  do  you  think  all  this,  Uncle  Zeke?"  asked 
Leonidas  with  some  degree  of  concern,  for  this  only 
confirmed  what  Isabel  had  intimated  and  the  opin 
ion  she  had  expressed  on  the  morning  after  the 
great  storm. 

"Now  hyar  Zeke,  an'  he's  gwine  fur  ter  tell  yer. 
I  hyard  Mars  Gabel  Arnold  an'  dat  strange  man, 


A  PLOT  DISCLOSED  179 

what  cums  hyar  nights,  talkin'.  Da  had  dar  heads 
close  togedder,  an'  da  thought  nobody  didn't  hyar 
urn,  but  ol'  Zeke  hyard  um  all  de  same.  I  hyard 
all  da  sed.  'Deed  I  did.  I  hyard  every  word  da 
sed.  I's  bin  scyard  an'  mighty  worried  ebber  sence, 
I  tells  yer.  Zeke  didn't  sleep  las'  night,  an'  he 
wouldn't  sleep  ter  night  nuther,  Mars  Lonny,  ef 
yer  hadn't  cum  hyar.  Now  yer  am  hyar  ol'  Zeke's 
right  smart  an'  easy,  kaise  da  kain't  git  yer  now. 
No,  da  kain't  git  yer." 

"Can't  get  me?  What  do  you  mean,  Uncle 
Zeke  ?  You  surely  have  been  dreaming.  You  don't 
think  the  patroles  will  trouble  me." 

"No,  Mars  Lonny,  de  patterroles  ketches  de  black 
fokes.  Hain't  yer  hyard  um  say  'run,  nigger,  run, 
de  patterroles  will  ketch  yer'  ?  Ye  hain't  black  an' 
de  patterroles  hain't  gwine  ter  ketch  yer  kaise  yer 
hain't  black,  but  Zeke's  mighty  fyard,  doe,  sum 
body  else  will." 

"Nonsense,"  interrupted  Leonidas;  "who  will 
catch  me?" 

"I's  gwine  ter  tell  yer,  Mars  Lonny,"  said  Zeke, 
with  a  touch  of  impatience  in  his  tone.  "I's  gwine 
ter  tell  yer.  As  I  wus  sayin',  I  hyard  Mars  Gabel 
an'  dat  strange  man  er  talkin'.  Deed  I  did,  Mars 
Lonny.  Now  yer  pay  'tention  ter  ol'  Zeke,  fur 
unce.  I's  afyard  yer  didn't  do  dat  t'other  day,  an* 
I's  afyard  yer  went  in  dat  pine  woods  whar  I  tol' 
yer  I  seed  dat  ghost.  Now  didn't  yer?" 

"Go  on,  Uncle  Zeke;  I  am  anxious  to  hear  what 
you  have  to  say  about  Mr.  Arnold  and  the  strange 
man,"  answered  Leonidas,  ignoring  the  question. 


180         IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

"Mars  Lonny,  I  went  down  towards  de  barn  las' 
night,  jes  fur  a  leetle  walk.  I's  mighty  krippled 
up  wid  rumatiz,  but  I  felt  right  lak  I  ought  ter 
go  down  dat  way.  Yer  knows  yer  habs  dem  feel 
ings,  an'  yer  kain't  'splain  um — no,  yer  kain't  'splain 
um.  Well,  dats  de  kin'  ob  feelins  dat  I  had  den. 
So  I  tuck  mysef,  an'  hobbled  down  in  de  'rection 
ob  de  barn,  as  I  wus  er  tellin'  yer.  I  didn't  know 
but  sumthin'  might  be  de  matter  wid  Club  Foot, 
or  de  chickens,  or  sumthin'  else  might  be  de  matter. 
I  jes  didn't  know  jes  why  I  went,  but  I  went,  Mars 
Lonny,  enyway,  an'  I's  so  glad  I  went.  'Deed  I  is, 
Mars  Lonny,  I's  glad  I  went.  Well,  as  I  was  er 
tellin'  yer,  I  went  down  dat  way,  an'  when  I  got 
jam  by  de  cabin  whar  ol'  Pompey  uster  stay  I  jes 
couldn't  go  no  furder,  an'  I  went  in  de  cabin, 
kaise  de  doe  wus  open,  an'  I  sot  down  on  de  floe. 
When  I  wus  sot  down  I  hyard  sum  un  talkin'. 
'Deed  I  did,  Mars  Lonny,  I  hyard  sum  un  talkin'.  I 
jes  couldn't  hep  it,  but  I  hyard  what  da  sed." 

"Did  they  talk  about  me?"  asked  Leonidas,  and 
the  old  slave  could  discern  a  somewhat  anxious 
tone  in  his  voice. 

"Yes,  Mars  Lonny,  da  talked  'bout  yer,"  said 
Zeke,  impressively;  "dat's  what  I  wants  ter  tell 
yer." 

"Could  you  see  the  men,  as  well  as  hear  them?" 

"Yes  surree ;  dat  I  could.  Da  wus  standin'  under 
de  big  tree,  'cross  de  driveway  ober  f  rum  ol'  Pom- 
pey's  cabin,  an'  I  wus  sittin'  down  on  de  cabin  floe 
right  lak  I  tells  yer.  De  moon  wus  shinin',  an'  I 
could  see  de  men,  but  da  couldn't  see  ol'  Zeke." 


A  PLOT  DISCLOSED  181 

"How  do  you  know  they  couldn't  see  you,  Uncle 
Zeke?" 

"Now,  Mars  Lonny,  yer  knows  dat  ef  da  had 
seed  ol'  Zeke,  da  wouldn't  talk  lak  da  did,"  an 
swered  the  old  man  with  conviction,  "fur  I  could 
hyar  every  word  da  sed.  Now  yer  knows,  Mars 
Lonny,  da  wouldn't  sed  what  da  did,  knowin'  Zeke 
could  hyar  um." 

"What  did  they  say,  Uncle  Zeke?"  asked  Leon- 
idas,  with  a  little  impatience  at  the  old  man's  de 
lay. 

"Da  sed  yer  wus  in  de  way,  an'  Mars  Gabel  sed 
yer  knowd  too  much  ter  sute  'im,  an'  sho'  as  yer 
libs,  Mars  Lonny,  dem  men  means  ter  do  sumthin' 
bad  ter  yer.  Un  ob  de  men  sed,  les  kill  im  an'  sink 
im  in  de  branch,'  but  Mars  Gabel  sed  'No/  an'  den 
he  ax'd  dat  strange  man  ter  take  yer  off  ter  de 
swamp  whar  he  stays  at  in  de  da'  time.  Mars  Ga 
bel  didn't  want  fur  ter  kill  yer,  an'  sink  yer  in  de 
branch,  kaise  he's  got  'miff  ob  dat  branch.  Dat 
branch  dun  bin  monstrus  sight  ob  trouble  ter  Mars 
Gabel,  an'  he  don't  neber  want  ter  see  dat  branch 
ergin.  Dat  tother  man  sed  he  wus  ready  ter  kill 
yer.  He  sed  he  would  kill  yer,  or  take — " 

"But,  Uncle  Zeke,  do  you  mean  there  were  three 
men?"  asked  Leonidas  in  excitement.  "I  thought 
there  were  but  two — one  Arnold,  and  the  other  Jack 
Mobaly,  who  is  mean  enough  for  anything.  Who 
could  the  third  man  be?" 

"I  don't  know  who  dat  man  wus,"  said  Zeke, 
"but  he  wus  a  soger-man,  kaise  I  could  tell  by  de 
coat  an'  de  buttons  he  had  on  'im." 

13 


1 82         IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

"A  soldier-man!  A  soldier-man!"  said  Le- 
onidas,  apparently  surprised.  "I  see  and  under 
stand  it  all  now.  I  know  why  Mr.  Arnold  wishes 
me  out  of  his  way,  and  I  know  why  the  soldier- 
man  would  like  to  have  me  either  in  the  branch  or 
in  the  swamp;  and  that  man  Mobaly,  he  is  in  for 
anything  that  is  wicked.  He  will  do  Gabriel  Ar 
nold's  bidding  for  a  very  small  price.  I  see  now 
what  I  have  to  face,  Uncle  Zeke,  and  I  will  do  my 
best  to  be  ready  for  it.  My  first  effort  will  be  to 
avoid  them ;  the  next  to  be  prepared  to  defend  my 
self  should  I  encounter  them." 

"Mars  Lonny,  keep  'way  frum  dem  men,"  said 
Zeke,  with  emphasis,  "kaise  da  means  ter  kill  yer  ef 
da  kain't  do  no  better.  Frum  what  da  sed,  de  soger- 
man  an'  de  strange  man  what  cums  hyar  nights 
wouldn't  min'  killin'  ob  yer,  but  Mars  Gabel  don't 
want  ter  kill  yer.  He  wants  yer  tuck  ter  de  swamp 
an'  kep'  whar  dat  strange  man  libs.  Keep  'way 
frum  dem  weeked  men,  Mars  Lonny,  I  ax  yer." 

Here  was  a  deep-laid  scheme  on  the  part  of  these 
three  men — Arnold,  Mobaly  and  Vantine — to  dis 
pose  of  Leonidas  in  some  way.  The  motive  was 
clearly  to  be  seen.  It  was  the  night  before  the  meet 
ing  in  the  woods  with  the  soldier  that  Vantine  had 
entered  the  plot  to  destroy  or  abduct  him,  and  in 
the  light  of  this  disclosure  it  was  now  evident  what 
his  purpose  was,  when  he  drew  his  sword,  and  in 
his  desperation  had  endeavored  to  choke  his  adver 
sary.  The  conviction  was  now  growing  upon  Le 
onidas  that  the  Confederate  officer  was  not  at  this 
time  far  away,  and  that  he  might  expect  an  attack 


A  PLOT  DISCLOSED  183 

any  moment.  He  remembered  that  the  last  he  heard 
from  him,  as  his  horse  galloped  away,  was,  "This 
is  not  settled  yet;"  and  now  it  began  to  dawn  upon 
him  that  the  encounter  between  him  and  Vantine 
in  the  woods  might  have  a  serious  sequel. 

"What  was  the  last  thing  you  heard  the  men 
say?"  asked  Leonidas,  "and  what  became  of  them 
afterward  ?" 

Leonidas  felt  that  if  they  had  agreed  upon  a 
plan  of  action,  he  might,  in  a  measure,  anticipate 
what  they  were  intending  to  do,  and  hence  prepare 
himself  to  avoid  the  emergency  that  might  other 
wise  arise.  Though  he  was  a  vigorous  young  man, 
and  felt  that  he  was  equal  to  either  of  these  men 
where  no  advantage  was  manifest,  still  he  shrank 
from  an  encounter  with  all  of  them  at  once;  for  he 
knew,  with  their  wicked  design  in  mind,  and  the 
preparation  they  were  sure  to  make,  it  would  be 
difficult  to  tell  the  immediate  result  of  a  conflict. 

"De  las'  I  hyard  dem  men  say  wus  dis,"  said 
Zeke :  "Mars  Gabel  sed,  'Now,  boys,  I  'pends  on  yer 
ter  do  dis  job.  Yer  knows  I's  ol'  an'  feeble,  an' 
kain't  hep  yer.  So  yer  jes  take  dat  young  debel  off 
ter  de  swamp.'  When  Mars  Gabel  tol'  de  two  men 
dat  he  lef  um  an'  went  back  ter  de  house.  Dis  is 
egzackly  right  lak  I  tells  yer,  Mars  Lonny.  Da 
means  ter  take  yer  ter  de  Dismal  Swamp,  ef  da  kin 
git  holt  ob  yer." 

"But  what  became  of  the  other  two  men?" 

"Da  talked  sum  moe  befoe  da  went,"  replied 
Zeke,  quickly. 

"What  did  the  soldier  say?" 


184         IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

"Don't  yer  know,  Mars  Lonny,  dat  weeked  man 
sed  dat  he  wants  Missis  Bel,  an'  ef  yer  wus  out'n 
de  way  she'd  hab  him.  La  sakes,  Mars  Lonny, 
Missis  Bel  hain't  gwine  ter  hab  'im  no  way.  She 
hain't  gwine  ter  hab  nobody  ceps  yer.  'Deed  she 
hain't.  But  de  soger-man  sed  yer  had  ter  git  out'n 
his  way,  an'  dat  dis  wus  his  chance,  an'  it  didn't 
make  no  diffurence  ter  him  ef  da  dropped  yer  in  de 
ribber.  De  strange  man  what  cums  hyar  nights 
sed  da  wouldn't  kill  yer,  nor  put  yer  in  de  ribber. 
He  sed  da  would  do  right  lak  Mars  Gabel  ax'd  dem 
ter  do.  Den  he  sed  Mars  Gabel  paid  'im  fur  de  job. 
Jes  think  ob  dat,  Mars  Lonny.  Now  dat  wus  all 
da  sed,  but  wusn't  dat  weeked?  I  wushed  ol'  Zeke 
wus  young  ergin,  an'  didn't  hab  dis  rumatiz.  He'd 
show  dem  men  sumthin'.  Dat  he  would,  Mars  Lon 
ny;  didn't  Zeke  tell  yer  dat  Mars  Gabel  Arnold  wus 
er  mighty  bad  man,  an'  yer  jest  thot  he  wusn't  so 
bad." 

"But  what  became  of  the  two  men?"  Leonidas 
asked  again. 

"Da  went  into  de  pine  woods  in  de  'rection  ob 
de  branch,"  said  Zeke,  with  much  nervousness,  "an' 
da  didn't  stay  dar  long,  I  knows,  kaise  da  mutt  er 
seed  dat  ghost  what  I's  bin  tellin'  yer  'bout." 

Uncle  Zeke  paused  for  a  time,  and  glanced 
around  with  great  uneasiness.  He  first  looked  at 
the  door,  and  then  at  Leonidas.  He  hobbled  closer 
to  where  Leonidas  was  standing,  and,  grasping  him 
by  the  arm,  looked  up  anxiously  into  his  face, 
saying  in  a  whisper,  "Mars  Lonny,  did  yer  hyar 
dat  noise?" 


CHAPTER  XXII 
AN  EXCITING  NIGHT 

LEONIDAS  listened  for  what  had  disturbed  Uncle 
Zeke,  and  detected  the  sound  of  muffled  voices 
which  seemed  to  move  about  the  cabin.  Presently 
the  old  man  asked  again,  with  more  animation  than 
before,  "Mars  Lonny,  did  yer  hyar  dat  noise?" 

"Yes,  Uncle  Zeke,  I  heard  it,  and  it  sounds  omi 
nous." 

"What  yer  means  by  dat,  Mars  Lonny?"  asked 
Zeke,  as  he  looked  anxiously  into  young  Darwood's 
face,  and  grasped  him  tightly  by  the  arm.  "Wh — 
a — a — a — a — t  yer  means  by  dat?" 

"I  mean  that  the  sound  is  suspicious,  and  has  no 
good  in  it  for  either  you  or  me." 

"It's  dem  weeked  men  cum  ter  git  yer,  Mars 
Lonny,"  announced  Zeke,  excitedly,  beginning  to 
move  nervously  about  the  room. 

Leonidas  realized  fully  that  Uncle  Zeke's  fears 
were  well  founded,  and  that  all  circumstances  in 
dicated  a  speedy  contest  with  his  enemies;  for  he 
distinctly  heard  one  of  the  men,  whose  voice  he 
recognized  as  that  of  Vantine,  say:  "Revenge  is 
sweet,  and  I'll  have  mine  soon.  He's  here,  and  I 
know  it." 

Uncle  Zeke  now  became  thoroughly  frightened; 
for  he  knew  these  men  were  bent  on  carrying  out 
their  design.  Looking  more  anxiously  into  his 


i86         IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

face,  still  holding  Leonidas  by  the  arm  with  one 
hand  and  pointing  in  the  direction  of  the  back  door 
of  the  cabin  with  the  other,  the  old  man  quickly 
said: 

"Run  out'n  de  back  doe,  an'  lebe  ol'  Zeke  hyar 
ter  hissef.  Ef  da  kills  Zeke  it  don't  matter  much, 
as  I's  not  gwine  ter  lib  long,  no  how.  Run,  Mars 
Lonny,  run  fur  yer  life.  Git  out'n  dar  way.  Fool 
um  jes  dis  unce.  Fool  urn,  Mars  Lonny,  fur  Zeke's 
sake,  fool  um." 

"Uncle  Zeke,  I'll  never  leave  you  while  there  is 
danger." 

"But  da'll  git  yer,  Mars  Lonny,  da'll  git  yer. 
Run,  quick,  Mars  Lonny;  run,"  he  pleaded. 

"No,  I'll  not  run,"  answered  Leonidas,  with  de 
liberation;  "I'll  stay  by  you,  and  not  leave  until  I 
am  forced  to  go." 

In  another  moment  there  was  a  tremendous 
thump,  and  the  cabin  door  was  burst  in,  splinters 
flying  in  every  direction.  Jack  Mobaly  and  Van- 
tine  quickly  approached  Leonidas  and  Zeke,  and 
before  many  words  could  be  spoken  Mobaly  had 
thrown  Uncle  Zeke  roughly  into  the  corner.  Van- 
tine  covered  Leonidas  with  a  revolver,  saying: 

"Move,  and  I'll  blow  your  infernal  brains  out  on 
the  spot."  Vantine's  voice  was  subdued,  but  de 
termined,  and  his  teeth  were  grinding  tightly  to 
gether  with  suppressed  passion.  He  continued 
with  a  sneer  of  sarcasm :  "Mr.  Darwood,  you  had 
your  innings  in  the  pine  woods  to-day.  It's  my 
turn  now.  There  you  were  the  victor,  and  I  was 
vanquished.  I  knew  it,  and  admitted  it.  Now  the 


AN  EXCITING  NIGHT  187 

advantage  is  on  my  side,  and  I'll  dictate  terms. 
You'll  surrender,  won't  you?" 

"Captain  Vantine — " 

"Don't  you  speak  another  word,  or  you'll  drop 
in  your  tracks,"  repeated  Vantine,  with  a  pro 
nounced  emphasis.  "I'll  hear  nothing  from  you. 
You  are  in  my  way,  and  this  is  my  chance.  You 
shall  go  where  I'll  not  be  annoyed  by  you  again  for 
some  time.  Mobaly  and  I  will  attend  to  your  case, 
and  we  will  have  no  words  from  you." 

"I  would  rather  die  than  suffer  indignity  at  the 
hands  of  these  men,"  said  Leonidas,  mentally, 
realizing  his  embarrassing  plight.  Then,  forgetting 
for  a  moment  his  perilous  position,  he  said  aloud: 

"Isabel!    Isabel!" 

"Don't  profane  her  name  in  my  presence," 
shouted  Vantine,  and  as  quick  as  thought  he 
touched  the  trigger  of  his  pistol,  sending  a  bullet 
whizzing  by  young  Darwood's  head. 

While  Joel  Vantine  was  making  the  most  of  his 
advantage  over  Leonidas,  Jack  Mobaly  had  thrown 
Uncle  Zeke  into  a  heap  in  a  corner  of  the  cabin. 
Then,  placing  the  old  man's  hands  between  his 
knees,  he  tied  them  fast  together,  until  the  rope  cut 
deep  into  the  flesh.  To  prevent  his  making  an  out 
cry,  even  after  they  should  be  gone,  Mobaly  with 
some  effort  pried  the  old  slave's  mouth  open,  and 
placed  the  stub  of  a  corncob  between  his  teeth.  Just 
as  he  was  certain  that  Uncle  Zeke  could  do  nothing 
but  groan,  he  was  startled  at  the  report  of  Van- 
tine's  pistol  and,  leaping  to  the  soldier's  side,  he 
shouted : 


i88         IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

"You've  got  him  at  last.     Did  you  hit  him?" 

Leonidas,  from  the  shock  caused  by  the  shoot 
ing,  though  the  bullet  did  not  hit  him,  staggered 
from  his  position  and  leaned  against  Uncle  Zeke's 
cot. 

Mobaly  cracked  his  big  leather  whip,  and,  tak 
ing  one  step  nearer,  placed  his  rough  hand  in  the 
collar  of  young  Darwood's  coat  and  started  for 
the  back  door,  saying  venomously: 

"You  killed  the  bear,  did  you?  Well,  you  may 
live  among  the  bears  before  long." 

Vantine  followed  closely  behind  with  his  hand 
on  his  revolver,  which  was  leveled  at  the  back  of 
Leonidas. 

Leonidas  realized  that  he  was  powerless  to  re 
sist  successfully,  and  felt  that  much  might  be 
gained  by  an  apparently  quiet  submission  to  the 
men  who,  for  the  present,  at  least,  were  masters  of 
the  situation.  It  distressed  him  greatly  to  leave 
Uncle  Zeke  in  such  a  pitiful  plight,  and  he  glanced 
over  his  shoulder  for  a  parting  look  at  his  faithful 
old  friend  as  the  three  left  the  cabin. 

The  crescent  moon  was  shining  brightly.  From 
this  fact  Leonidas  hoped  for  much,  though  he  did 
not  quite  know  how  or  why;  for  if  help  came  it 
must  be  from  an  unexpected  source.  If  an  oppor 
tunity  were  ever  to  present  itself  by  which  he  might 
escape  he  was  determined  to  be  on  the  alert  to  take 
advantage  of  it.  The  men  moved  down  the 
driveway  which  led  by  Pompey's  cabin  until  they 
stood  upon  the  spot  where  their  scheme  had  been 
devised  in  the  hearing  of  Zeke.  They  paused  for 


AN  EXCITING  NIGHT  189 

an  instant  to  consult  as  to  the  best  route,  and  then 
entered  the  woods  on  their  way  to  the  river. 

The  Elizabeth  is  not  properly  a  river,  but  an  es 
tuary  where  the  tide  ebbs  and  floods  twice  in  four 
and  twenty  hours.  In  one  direction  it  runs  for  five 
hours,  and  in  the  other  it  requires  seven  hours  to 
spend  its  force;  but,  whether  ebbing  or  flooding,  it 
rushes  at  the  rate  of  a  galloping  steed.  It  was  ebb 
tide  of  some  two  hours  and  a  half's  duration  when 
Vantine  and  Mobaly  reached  the  river  with  their 
prisoner.  This,  with  the  strong  wind  coming  from 
the  south,  was  a  difficulty  with  which  they  had  not 
reckoned,  and  their  progress  was  slow. 

When  their  craft  pointed  its  bow  into  the  eddy 
at  Devil'  s  Reach  it  was  swung  around  until  its 
wake  formed  a  spiral  of  mathematical  precision. 
As  the  bow  struck  violently  against  a  point  of  land 
jutting  out  into  the  river,  Mobaly  remarked : 

"This  infernal  place  has  got  its  right  name.  The 
devil  must  be  down  at  the  bottom,  stirring  the 
thing  up,  the  way  it's  whirling.  Confound  the 
place!  I'm  going  to  jump  out  of  this.  I  wouldn't 
make  a  good  sea-dog.  I'm  a  landlubber,  I  am. 
Sooner  be  on  dry  land  any  time,  or,  come  to  that, 
I'd  rather  be  in  the  swamp  than  in  this  confounded 
place." 

He  leaped  upon  the  shore  with  the  killock  in  his 
hand,  pulled  the  boat  half  out  of  the  water,  and 
then  beckoned  Vantine  to  bring  his  man.  In  a  short 
while  the  three  had  left  the  boat,  making  their 
way  overland  to  the  swamp,  avoiding,  as  far  as  pos 
sible,  the  lines  of  usual  travel. 


190         IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

When  within  a  mile  of  the  swamp  limits,  on  en 
tering  a  heavy  skirt  of  gum  timber,  an  unexpected 
incident  occurred.  There  was  a  rustling  of  the  un 
dergrowth,  to  which  Mobaly  and  Vantine  paid  little 
heed,  except  that  they  quickened  their  step  and 
commanded  Leonidas  to  do  likewise.  He  did  not 
protest,  however,  but  he  did  not  hurry.  Mobaly 
presently  placed  one  hand  on  the  arm  of  Leonidas 
and  with  the  other  in  the  coat  collar  at  the  back  of 
his  neck  attempted  to  force  him  deeper  into  the 
woods.  For  the  first  time  since  leaving  Briarcrest 
Leonidas  found  himself  resisting  the  efforts  of 
his  captors.  He  did  not  know  why,  but  he  was  em 
boldened  by  a  presentiment  that  help  was  close  at 
hand. 

"Wehr  gaht  doo?  Shteh!"  It  was  Ezra,  who 
thundered  these  words.  As  the  bear  trainer 
emerged  from  the  undergrowth  he  dealt  Mobaly 
a  blow  on  the  head  which  made  him  stagger  for  a 
moment.  Then  he  fell  against  a  nearby  tree,  and 
slid  down  its  side  until  he  lay  in  a  heap  upon  the 
ground. 

Vantine,  with  soldierly  instinct,  was  not  sur 
prised,  and  seemed  ready  for  the  attack.  He  lev 
eled  his  pistol  and  fired.  The  ball  struck  Leonidas 
in  the  side,  and  glancing  off  a  rib  bone  passed 
around  it  in  an  irregular  course  to  the  back,  where 
it  emerged  and  buried  itself  in  the  tree  just  over 
where  Mobaly  lay  in  a  semi-conscious  condition. 

Leonidas  made  a  desperate  effort  to  stand,  but 
tottered  from  side  to  side  and  fell  to  the  ground. 
He  lay  in  a  recumbent  position,  supporting  himself 


AN  EXCITING  NIGHT  191 

with  his  left  hand.  Vantine,  maddened  by  the  frus 
tration  of  their  plans,  advanced  a  step  and  took 
deliberate  aim  at  the  region  of  his  rival's  heart. 

"In  Gots  willen  hargane  ihm  nicht!"  screamed 
Ezra,  springing  at  Vantine  before  the  pistol  could 
be  discharged,  grasping  him  by  the  arm  and 
wrenching  the  weapon  from  his  hand.  In  the  next 
instant  he  had  the  soldier  by  the  throat,  dragging 
him  to  where  Leonidas  lay. 

"Shoot,  mine  frind!"  he  shouted  passionately,  as 
he  tightened  his  fingers  about  Vantine's  throat 
until  it  was  with  great  difficulty  that  the  soldier 
could  breathe.  "Me  kill — shoot,  mine  frind — mine 
frind  save  mine  life — me  kill  you." 

"Hold,  Ezra,  don't  kill  him,"  cried  Leonidas. 
"I'm  not  seriously  injured.  It's  only  a  flesh 
wound." 

Leonidas  was  soon  on  his  feet,  though  weak 
from  the  wound,  and  stood  at  Ezra's  side.  The 
bear  trainer  was  in  no  mood  to  be  merciful  to  Van- 
tine,  and  Leonidas  realized  that  the  safety  of  his 
assailant  depended  upon  him. 

"Me  kill  him — him  shoot  mine  frind,"  protested 
Ezra. 

"No,  don't  kill  him,"  answered  Leonidas,  as  he 
placed  his  hand  gently  on  Ezra's  shoulder,  "but 
hold  him  until  we  have  an  understanding." 

"Captain,  whose  innings  now,  yours  or  mine?" 

Vantine,  who  had  not  yet  fully  recovered,  made 
a  great  effort  to  speak,  but  could  not  for  a  moment. 
Finally  he  said,  "It's  yours — I — suppose,  though — 
I — did — my — best — to — kill — you." 


192         IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

"Captain  Vantine,  listen!  You  shot  with  the  in 
tention  of  killing  me,  and  your  aim  was  fairly  good, 
but  a  kind  Providence  has  saved  my  life.  My 
friend,  the  Jew,  has  in  an  opportune  moment  ap 
peared  to  thwart  the  purpose  of  Gabriel  Arnold, 
Jack  Mobaly  and  yourself;  and  now  you  are  again 
at  my  mercy.  If  I  should  say  the  word,  or  should 
I  say  nothing,  you  would  soon  be  a  dead  man,  for 
you  are  powerless  in  the  hands  of  Ezra,  who  is 
ready  to  avenge  my  wound  by  your  death." 

Leonidas  was  here  forced  to  pause  and  endeavor, 
with  the  aid  of  Ezra,  to  stop  the  bleeding  of  the 
wound.  Ezra,  meanwhile,  was  not  unmindful  of 
Vantine,  who  dared  not  move.  Presently  Leonidas 
went  on : 

"He  means  to  kill  you  unless  I  interpose.  This  I 
have  done,  and  intend  that  you  shall  live,  but  I 
must  know  your  purpose  for  the  future.  Do  you 
intend  to  pursue  me,  and  seek  an  undue  advantage, 
and  also  to  be  an  annoyance  to  the  young  woman 
who  detests  even  to  think  of  you  ?  If  I  could  trust 
you,  and  had  your  promise  to  change  your  course, 
so  far  as  my  interests  are  concerned,  I  would  ad 
vise  my  friend  to  let  you  go.  I  have  no  desire  to 
harm  you,  but  I  am  determined  that  you  shall  not 
annoy  me  or  Miss  Proctor  in  the  future." 

"But — but — ,"  stammered  Vantine. 

"But  what?"  interrupted  Leonidas. 

"Wouldn't  she  at  least  respect  me,  if  she  were 
permitted  to  do  so?" 

"She  certainly  has  little  respect  for  you,"  re 
sponded  Leonidas,  "and  I  am  sure  she  will  have 


AN  EXCITING  NIGHT  193 

less  when  she  hears  of  this  night's  work,  and  knows 
that  I  carry  a  wound  made  by  a  pistol  in  your 
hands;  and  that  I  might  now  be  dead,  but  for  my 
friend  Ezra.  If  she  has  any  respect  for  me  how 
could  she  have  any  for  you,  when  she  learns  that 
your  purpose  was  to  kill  me  ?  If  from  this  moment 
you  will  never  intentionally  cross  my  path  you  shall 
be  free.  You  know  what  I  wish,  Captain.  Do  you 
promise?  Remember,  if  you  break  your  promise, 
and  fall  into  the  hands  of  this  man  again,  I  shall 
not  be  responsible  for  the  outcome.  What  do  you 
say?" 

"Y — e — e — e — s,"  he  answered,  still  hesitating 
at  relinquishing  his  hope. 

Leonidas  ceased  speaking,  and  stood  as  if  he 
had  forgotten  his  surroundings.  His  mind  had  gone 
back  to  Uncle  Zeke.  He  thought  of  his  old  friend, 
and  the  suffering  he  must  at  that  moment  be  en 
during,  if,  indeed,  he  were  still  alive.  Whether  he 
ever  met  Vantine  again  or  not  he  felt  that  he  must 
hurry  back  to  Briarcrest. 

Though  he  was  uncertain  as  to  what  disposition 
should  be  made  of  Vantine,  he  was  sure  Mobaly 
should  be  delivered  to  the  police  authorites,  to  an 
swer  again  for  the  crime  of  arson.  He  began  to 
devise  the  best  method  of  accomplishing  this  pur 
pose,  and  suggested  the  course  to  Ezra.  They 
turned  to  where  Mobaly  had  lain,  and  were  sur 
prised  to  find  he  was  not  there.  During  the  fracas 
with  the  soldier  he  had  regained  consciousness 
and  had  crawled  away  into  the  undergrowth  and 
made  good  his  escape. 


194         IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

Ezra  was  now  desperate  to  wreak  vengeance 
upon  Vantine.  "Big  man  gone, — kill  soldier,"  he 
said  as  he  tightened  his  grip  on  the  officer's  throat, 
"Him  shoot  mine  frind.  Kill  him." 

"Captain  Vantine,  you  see  how  determined  Ezra 
is,  and  what  would  happen  if  I  should  withdraw  my 
protest,"  said  Leonidas,  taking  advantage  of  Ezra's 
outburst.  "You  are  perfectly  helpless.  Will  you 
promise  to  go,  and  that  for  good  ?" 

Vantine,  who  could  not  speak  without  difficulty 
on  account  of  Ezra's  hold,  answered:  "There  is 
nothing  I  can  do  but  go.  If  you  wish  it,  I'll  go." 

"Will  you  do  as  I  request?"  persisted  Leonidas. 
"You  know  what  I  mean.  Do  you  promise?" 

"I  promise,"  he  gasped,  as  the  tightening  of  the 
Jew's  grip  changed  the  color  of  his  face. 

"Will  you  cease  your  attentions  to  Miss  Proc 
tor?"  demanded  Leonidas. 

"Yes;"  this  monosyllable  was  all  he  had  breath 
to  utter. 

Ezra  relaxed  his  grip,  and  Vantine,  weak  and 
limp,  staggered  off  through  the  woods,  and  was 
soon  out  of  sight.  Ezra  dressed  the  wound  of 
Leonidas  with  necessaries  from  his  cavernous 
pockets  and  stopped  the  flow  of  blood  entirely.  Ex 
cept  for  weakness,  it  now  gave  him  no  inconveni 
ence  whatever.  Leonidas,  taking  Ezra  by  the  arm, 
directed  the  way  back  to  the  boat  over  the  same 
route  he  had  recently  been  led. 

The  wind  was  still  blowing  briskly  and  the  ebb 
tide  was  running  when  they  reached  the  shore. 
They  launched  the  boat  and  were  soon  in  the  chan- 


AN  EXCITING  NIGHT  195 

nel  of  the  river.  Everything  being  favorable,  they 
glided  swiftly  down  the  stream.  To  accelerate 
their  progress  Ezra  improvised  a  mutton-leg  sail 
out  of  his  long  garment  and  spritted  it  out  before 
the  wind.  In  a  short  time  they  landed,  and  soon 
entered  the  pine  woods  at  Briarcrest  from  the  east 
side  of  the  farm. 

The  moon  was  shining  as  brightly  as  when  they 
had  left  Zeke's  cabin,  and  things  could  be  dis 
tinctly  seen  even  in  the  shadow  of  the  pines.  As 
they  stepped  into  the  path  that  crosses  the  branch, 
through  which  Leonidas  had  gone  before,  he  in 
stinctively  looked  toward  the  pine  tree  under  which 
he  had  found  the  French  medal.  He  paused,  and 
directed  Ezra  to  look.  He  wondered  if  it  were  pos 
sible  for  him  to  be  mistaken.  Was  he  being  de 
ceived  by  his  own  eyes?  or  was  his  wound  pro 
ducing  delirium?  He  grasped  Ezra  tightly  by  the 
arm,  again  directing  his  attention. 

A  figure  clad  in  white  walked  up  and  down  the 
branch  for  a  distance  of  ten  feet  or  more;  then 
came  up  from  the  stream,  and  sat  beneath  the  pine 
of  varied  associations  and  bent  his  head  dejectedly 
into  his  hands. 

"No,  I  don't  believe  in  ghosts,"  said  Leonidas, 
half  audibly;  "but  that's  what  Uncle  Zeke  saw 
several  times  since  the  day  of  the  eclipse.  What 
can  it  mean?  No,  I  don't  believe  in  ghosts."  He 
hurried  away  from  the  path,  through  the  pines,  with 
Ezra  following  closely  behind,  with  the  air  of  a  man 
whom  nothing  that  he  might  see  now  would  sur 
prise. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 
ZEKE'S  SECRET  REVEALED 

LEONIDAS  and  Ezra  were  not  long  in  reaching 
Zeke's  cabin.  When  near  the  back  door  they  dis 
covered  that  some  one  besides  Uncle  Zeke  was  on 
the  inside. 

"Who  can  it  be?"  asked  Leonidas  of  Ezra,  as 
he  approached  cautiously,  pausing  to  listen. 

"Nigger  talk,"  replied  Ezra,  as  he  moved  near  to 
where  Leonidas  stood  at  the  door. 

"Why,  Aunt  Dinah's  got  home  and  she's  strug 
gling  over  Uncle  Zeke,"  said  Leonidas,  softly. 

To  prevent  alarm,  Leonidas  rapped  his  ac 
customed  signal  on  the  door  and  stepped  into  the 
room  where  Uncle  Zeke  still  lay  in  a  heap  in  the 
corner.  He  beckoned  to  Ezra  to  follow  him. 

By  the  aid  of  the  light  on  the  hearth  they  were 
only  a  moment  in  removing  the  cob  from  the  old 
man's  mouth  and  also  the  rope  from  his  knees  and 
hands.  They  then  placed  their  hands  beneath  his 
body  and  tenderly  laid  him  upon  the  cot.  He  had 
lain  for  some  time  before  he  fully  realized  who  the 
men  were,  though  he  felt  that  one  was  Leonidas 
and  that  he  was  safe,  for  he  had  recognized  the 
raps  on  the  door. 

Uncle  Zeke  looked  about  the  room  for  a  few 
minutes,  and  at  last  his  eyes  rested  eloquently  on 


ZEKE'S  SECRET  REVEALED  197 

Dinah,  who  stood  weeping.  He  then  gazed  steadily 
at  Ezra,  and  recognized  him,  and  finally  turned  his 
eyes  toward  Leonidas,  whom  he  took  by  the  hand. 
With  some  effort  he  raised  it  to  the  side  of  his 
face,  patting  it  feebly,  then  drawing  it  to  his  lips 
he  kissed  it  again  and  again.  He  raised  his  eyes, 
and  looked  steadily  into<  Leonidas's  face  with  an 
expression  which  indicated  that  he  wished  to  speak. 
As  young  Darwood  bent  over  the  old  man  he 
raised  his  arms  and  clasped  them  about  the  young 
man's  neck,  and,  drawing  his  head  down,  he  kissed 
him  several  times  on  the  forehead. 

"Mars  Lonny,  Fs  glad  ter  see  yer,"  he  said 
slowly  and  weakly.  "Yes,  Zeke's  mighty  glad  ter 
see  yer.  I  wus  mighty  fyard  dat  dem  weeked  men 
was  gwine  ter  kill  yer.  Yes,  Mars  Lonny,  I  was 
mighty  fyard.  How'd  yer  git  back,  Mars  Lonny? 
De  good  Marster  up  dar  muster  heped  yer.  Tell 
Zeke  'bout  how  yer  got  back." 

Putting  his  hand  on  Ezra's  head,  letting  it  slip 
down  to  his  shoulder,  and  patting  him  several  times, 
Leonidas  said:  "My  friend  came  just  in  the  nick 
of  time  to  save  me  from  those  wretches.  That 
soldier-man  shot  me  once  in  the  side,  and  had  good 
aim  on  my  heart,  and  was  just  about  to  fire,  when 
my  friend  Ezra  interfered  and  saved  my  life.  You 
see,  I  have  had  a  narrow  escape,  and  I  must  thank 
God  for  saving  my  life.  I'm  glad  we  were  able  to 
come  back  in  time  to  relieve  you.  Of  course,  there 
is  a  Providence  in  it  all." 

"Yer's  cum  back,  Mars  Lonny,  an'  I's  glad  ter 
see  yer.  Yes,  I's  mighty  glad  ter  see  yer." 


14 


198         IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

Leonidas  observed  a  hesitancy  about  his  words, 
and  a  suspicious  thickening  of  his  voice  which  por 
tended  a  serious  condition.  As  his  voice  faltered 
it  was  not  difficult  to  observe  a  change  in  the  old 
man's  countenance. 

"Uncle  Zeke,"  said  Leonidas,  tenderly,  "you  are 
weak  from  pain  and  cruel  usage.  Suppose  you  let 
me  talk,  and  you  listen.  Is  there  nothing  I  may  do 
for  you  ?" 

He  stepped  to  the  side  of  the  fireplace,  took  a 
gourd-dipper,  filling  it  from  the  bucket  in  the  cor 
ner,  and  hurried  to  Uncle  Zeke.  Placing  his  hand 
beneath  Zeke's  head  he  raised  him  to  an  upright  po 
sition  and  put  the  water  to  his  lips. 

"I  feels  better  now,  Mars  Lonny;  I  feels  better, 
but  I's  mighty  weak  lak." 

"Don't  talk  any  more,  Uncle  Zeke;  let  me  talk, 
and  you  can  tell  me  what  you  want  to  say  when 
you  can  sit  up,  which  I  trust  will  be  before  very 
long.  Ezra,  Aunt  Dinah  and  I  will  be  the  nurses, 
and  you  the  patient ;  and  I  am  sure  you  will  soon  be 
well." 

"Yer's  er  mighty  good  nuss,  Mars  Lonny,"  said 
Zeke,  with  pathos  in  his  voice,  "but  yer  han'  ain't 
sof  an'  nice,  right  lak  it  uster  be.  It  wus  sof '  right 
lak  Missis  Mel's  befoe  yer  went  ter  de  Creek.  What 
yer  bin  doin',  Mars  Lonny,  wid  yer  han's?" 

The  old  man  lifted  Leonidas's  hand  again,  and 
pressed  it  to  his  lips.  "What's  de  matter  wid  yer 
han's,  Mars  Lonny?  Da  hain't  sof  an'  nice  now." 

The  old  man's  eyes  suddenly  became  dim,  and 
though  he  could  see  the  three  who  stood  by  his 


ZEKE'S  SECRET  REVEALED  199 

bed  he  could  not  distinguish  them.  He  wished 
now  to  be  assured  that  Leonidas,  whom  he  loved  so 
dearly,  was  really  by  his  side;  and  that  the  hand 
that  seemed  so  changed  was  that  of  his  friend. 

"Yes,  Uncle  Zeke,  it  is  I,  your  friend,"  said 
Leonidas,  softly. 

"I  knows  it's  yer  now,  Mars  Lonny,"  said  Zeke, 
feebly.  "I  knows  dat  sweet  voice.  It  allus  sounded 
lak  de  angils  ter  ole  Zeke.  I  kain't  see  yer,  but  I 
knows  'tis  yer,  kaise  Zeke  kin  tell  yer  voice;  but 
Mars  Lonny,  what's  de  matter  wid  yer  han'  ?  Taint 
lak  it  uster  be." 

"I've  been  at  work  in  the  swamp  for  Dr.  Dems- 
ter,  and  that  accounts  for  the  change  in  my  hands. 
Before  I  left  home  I  never  had  hard  work  to  do, 
and  my  hands  were  soft  and  white;  but  now  things 
have  changed  and  I  have  to  work,  but  I  am  happy 
in  it,  and  all  will  some  day  be  explained." 

"It  am  Mars  Lonny,"  said  Zeke,  falteringly.  "I 
knows  'tis  Mars  Lonny.  Dat's  right  lak  Mars  Lon- 
ny's  talk." 

"Now  don't  talk  any  more,  Uncle  Zeke.  Just 
you  rest,  and  we'll  wait  until  you  are  stronger." 

"Zeke — mus' — talk — ,  Mars  Lonny, — kaise — I's 
— got — sumthin' — fur — ter — tell — yer.  I's — gwine 
— ter — die — soon — ,  an',  Mars  Lonny — ,  yer — mus' 
— know — what's — in — Zeke's — mine — ,  an'  what's 
wurrid — him — sence — de — 'Dark  Day.'  Now, 
Mars  Lonny — let — Zeke — talk — while — he — kin." 

The  old  man's  voice  became  stronger,  and  he 
spoke  with  more  animation,  as  he  delivered  himself 
of  the  prophecy. 


zoo         IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

"You'll  not  die  yet  awhile,  Uncle  Zeke,  and  I  can 
wait  until  you  are  stronger  to  hear  what  you  have 
to  tell  me.  I'm  sure  it  is  important,  but  you  can 
wait  until  you  are  more  able  to  talk." 

"Zeke  hain't  gwine  ter  git  better,  Mars  Lonny. 
I's  dyin'  now,  Mars  Lonny,"  he  answered,  as  his 
voice  again  faltered;  "Zeke's  dyin'  now." 

"O,  I  trust  not,  Uncle  Zeke,"  Leonidas  answered, 
slowly,  but,  in  spite  of  his  desire  to  think  otherwise, 
fearing  it  might  be  true. 

His  hope  of  Uncle  Zeke's  recovery  was  dispelled 
when  the  old  man  looked  steadily  at  him  for  a  mo 
ment  without  speaking,  and  then  finally  said, 
"Mars  Lonny,  I  knows  it's  yer,  but  Zeke  kain't  see 
yer." 

The  tears  broke  over  the  eyelids  of  Leonidas, 
and  ran  down  his  face,  dropping  on  Uncle  Zeke's 
hand. 

He  tried  to  speak,  but  his  words  choked  him  at 
first.  Finally  he  bent  over  Uncle  Zeke,  smoothing 
his  brow,  and  asked  with  difficulty : 

"Can't  you  see  anything,  Uncle  Zeke?  Can't 
you  see  Ezra  and  Aunt  Dinah?  They  are  both 
here." 

"Whar's  Dinah?" 

Leonidas  beckoned,  and  Aunt  Dinah  moved  to 
the  bedside.  She  placed  her  hand  on  the  old  man's 
forehead  and  said  simply,  "Zeke,"  and  then  broke 
into  a  flood  of  tears,  unable  to  say  anything  more. 

"Dat's  my  Dinah,  but  I  kain't  see  hur,"  said  the 
dying  man,  sadly. 

Aunt  Dinah,  overcome  by  sorrow,  dropped  on 


ZEKE'S  SECRET  REVEALED  201 

the  short  pine  log  and  sobbed  as  if  her  heart  would 
break. 

"Can't  you  see  anything?"  inquired  Leonidas. 

"Yes,  Mars  Lonny;  Zeke  can  see,  but  he  kain't 
see  yer  nor  Dinah,"  answered  the  old  man,  slowly. 

"What,  then,  do  you  see?"  asked  Leonidas,  the 
tears  coursing  down  his  face,  as  he  looked  into  his 
friend's  eyes.  He  felt  that  they  had  looked  for  the 
last  time  on  earthly  things,  for  earthly  things  they 
could  not  see. 

"I  see  Pompey,  an'  de  dogs  hain't  arter  'im  no 
moe,"  said  Zeke,  "an'  Mars  Gabel  hain't  beetin' 
'im  nuther.  I  hyars  Pompey  say,  'Cum  on,  Zeke, 
dis  am  a  good  place.'  Don't  yer  see  'im,  an'  hyar 
'im  too,  Mars  Lonny?  Dar  he  am.  Don't  yer  see 
'im?" 

"Do  you  see  anyone  else  besides  Pompey?" 

"Yes,  dar  stans  leetle  Zeke,"  said  the  old  man, 
joyfully.  "My  leetle  Zeke.  Dinah  nam'  'im  arter 
me  er  long  time  ago.  Mars  Gabel  sol'  leetle  Zeke 
ter  de  traders,  ter  be  tuck  down  ter  Alabam.  It 
wus  when  de  leetle  thing  wus  jes  a  nussin'  baby. 
An'  da  snach  'im  frum  Dinah  when  he  wus  er  cryin' 
fit  ter  break  his  heart,  an'  da  tuck  'im  away,  an'  I 
hain't  seed  'im  sence.  No,  I  hain't  seed  'im  sence, 
til  now;  but  dar  he  am  jam  by  Pompey.  Mars 
Lonny,  Mars  Lonny,  he's  hol'n  out  his  hans  fur 
me  right  lak  dis." 

The  old  man  made  an  effort  to  hold  his  hands  in 
the  direction  of  what  he  seemed  to  see,  but  his 
strength  soon  failed  him,  and  they  dropped  help 
less  at  his  side. 


2O2         IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

"Do  you  see  anybody  else?" 

"I  sees  lots  ob  folks,  Mars  Lonny,  but  I  don't 
know  who  da  am.  No,  Zeke  don't  know  who  da  am, 
but  I  hyars  de  sweetes'  music  dat  I  eber  hyard  in  all 
my  life.  Un  minit  ob  dat  am  better'n  all  de  music 
Zeke  eber  hyard  befoe.  Da  hain't  got  no  banjos  an' 
fiddles  up  dar.  It's  better'n  dat.  Da  am  sing-in' 
too.  Don't  yer  hyar  um?" 

"What  do  they  sing,  Uncle  Zeke?" 

"Listen,  an'  yer  hyar  um,  Mars  Lonny,"  said 
Zeke,  his  voice  growing  weaker,  "da  sing  'bout 
Mosis  an'  de  Lam'." 

The  old  man  paused,  and  remained  quiet  for 
some  time.  He  turned  his  head  toward  Leonidas 
and  raised  it  from  the  cot,  and  felt  around  as 
if  in  search  of  something,  and  when  his  hand  met 
that  of  Leonidas  he  seemed  content. 

"Take  Zeke's  han,  Mars  Lonny.  Zeke's  dyin'. 
My  feet  am  col',  right  lak  da  wus  in  de  worter  ob  a 
col'  ribber.  Hain't  Zeke  dyin',  Mars  Lonny?" 

"O,  I'm  afraid  so,  Uncle  Zeke,"  answered  Leoni 
das,  "but  you  are  not  frightened?" 

"I  hain't  fyard,  Mars  Lonny,  no,  Zeke  hain't 
fyard.  He'll  soon  be  dar  wid  Pompey  an'  leetle 
Zeke.  I  hates  ter  lebe  yer,  Mars  Lonny,  but  it 
looks  mighty  nice  ober  dar.  No,  Zeke  hain't 
scyard.  He  wants  ter  go,  an' — " 

He  hesitated,  and  there  seemed  to  be  a  change 
in  his  train  of  thought,  for  he  said :  "But  befoe  I 
kin  go  dar  I's  got  sumthin'  fur  ter  tell  yer,  Mars 
Lonny.  No,  Zeke  kain't  die  till  he  tells  yer  dat 
De  Good  Man  wouldn't  let  Zeke  go  whar  Pompey 


ZEKE'S  SECRET  REVEALED  203 

an'  leetle  Zeke  am  till  he  tol'  sumbody,  an'  I  don't 
want  nobody  ter  know  'ceps  yer,  Mars  Lonny. 
Zeke  kain't  die  till  he  tells  yer  dat,  an'  nobody 
kain't  hear  it  ceps  yerself.  Whar's  Ezri?  It  don't 
matter  'bout  Dinah.  Sense  Mars  Gabel  struck  hur 
on  de  head  she  hain't  nebber  hyard  sense." 

Leonidas  bade  Ezra  leave  the  room  and  remain 
within  calling  distance  until  he  should  again  be 
needed. 

"Ezra  is  gone  now,"  said  Leonidas;  "are  you 
strong  enough  to  tell  me  what  you  wish  me  to 
know?" 

"I — mus' — tell — yer — ,  Mars  Lonny, — befoe — I 
— kin — go — whar — dat — music — am,"  said  Uncle 
Zeke,  and  his  voice  showed  great  exhaustion  as  he 
tried  to  put  his  words  together.  "Set  down,  Mars 
Lonny,  when  I  tells  yer.  Is — dis — Mars  Lonny 
Darwood  —  what  —  uster  —  cum  —  ter  —  Zeke's 
cabin?  Sho'?  Yes, — 'tis — Mars  Lonny.  Yer  rec- 
umlect — dat — I — tol' — yer — dat — Mars  Gabel  Ar 
nold — wits — er — mighty — bad — man.  Well — now 
I's  —  gwine  —  fur  —  ter  —  tell  —  yer  —  befoe 
I — dies,  'bout — how — bad — Mars  Gabel — am.  Un 
da  Mars  Gabel  wus  down  in  de  pine  woods,  an'  I 
wus  down  dar,  an'  Mars  Gabel  didn't  see  me.  I 
was  settin'  down  jam  by  de  holler  tree,  an'  Mars 
Gabel  wus  standin'  jam  by  er  big  pine  tree  by  de 
branch  dat  runs  through  de  farm,  an  he  had  er  big 
hickry  stick  in  his  han'.  When  Mars  Gabel 
wus  stanin'  lookin'  round,  dar  wus  er  man 
cum  up  de  paf  frum  de  Gosport  road.  He 
cums  up  an'  speaks  ter  Mars  Gabel  an'  Mars 


2O4         IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

Gabel  sez,  'Yer'se  dat  Frenchmun  what's  lately  cum 
ober.'  He  sez,  'Yes,  I's  a  Frenchmun,  but  kain't 
yer  show  me  de  way  out'n  dis  woods?'  He  had 
sum  munny  in  his  han'  an'  Mars  Gabel  seed  it.  Da 
didn't  hab  many  words,  but  Mars  Gabel  looked 
round  ter  see  dat  nobody  wus  jam  by,  an'  den  he 
tuck  dat  hickry  club,  and  hit  de  man  on  de  head. 
He  run  down  de  branch,  an'  Mars  Gabel  run  arter 
'im  an'  hit  'im  on  de  head  ergin.  He  run  up  an' 
down  de  branch  three  or  foe  times,  an'  den  he  run 
out'n  de  branch,  an'  under  de  pine  tree  ergin — Mars 
Gabel  arter  'im  all  de  time.  When  da  got  up  ter  de 
pine  tree  ergin,  da  tussled  right  smart,  an'  de  poor 
man's  head  wus  er  bleedin',  an'  de  blood  went  all 
ober  Mars  Gabel's  close.  Mars  Gabel  got  loose  an' 
hit  de  man  ergin  wid  de  hickry,  an'  de  man  fell 
down  under  de  big  pine  tree,  an'  I  hyard  'im  groan." 
Zeke  paused  here,  partly  to  recover  his  breath 
and  partly  to  shudder  at  the  fearful  memory.  "I's 
nebber  gwine  ter  furgit  dat  man's  groan.  Den  he 
said  sum  words.  He  said,  'What  will  de  Emprer 
think? — de  'Federacy — de  'Federacy.'  An'  den  he 
sed,  My  poe  wife,'  and  den  he  didn't  say  no  moe. 
He  didn't  talk  plain  lak  dat,  but  I  know'd  what  he 
sed.  Dat  man  muster  ben  sumbody  great,  kaise  he 
had  lots  ob  munny,  an'  he  had  on  his  brest  er  big 
shiny  thing,  right  lak  er  badge,  an'  it  shin'd  right 
lak  gol'.  Mars  Gabel  sed,  'Now  yer'se  ded,'  an'  he 
search  his  pockits,  an'  tuck  all  de  munny  he  had, 
an'  he  tuck  frum  his  pockit  er  piece  ob  paper,  an' 
sed,  'Shux,  I  kain't  read  dat — dat's  French, — an'  he 
tuck  de  paper  an'  stuck  it  in  de  holler  ob  er  big  gum 


ZEKE'S  SECRET  REVEALED  205 

tree,  jam  by  de  pine  whar  he  hit  de  man.  I  don't 
know  why  he  didn't  tare  dat  piece  ob  paper  up,  but 
he  didn't.  He  put  it  in  de  gum  tree  right  lak  I  tells 
yer.  I  furgot  ter  tell  yer  dat  Mars  Gabel  killed  dat 
man  on  de  'Dark  Day' — de  day  yer  sez  wus  de 
'clipse.  I  don't  know  'bout  dat,  but  it  wus  er 
mighty  'Dark  Day/  an'  Zeke  hain't  seed  no  peace 
sense.  But  now  I  feels  better  sence  I  tol'  yer, 
Mars  Lonny." 

"What  did  Arnold  do  with  the  man's  body, 
Uncle  Zeke?" 

"I  don't  know,  Mars  Lonny;  deed  I  don't,"  said 
Uncle  Zeke.  "He  drug  'im  down  ter  de  edge  ob 
de  branch  lak,  an'  when  he  wus  out'n  sight  I  hur 
ried  back  ter  de  cabin,  an'  I  wus  mighty  glad  when 
I  got  hyar." 

"Did  Mr.  Arnold  see  you  in  the  woods  that 
day?"  asked  Leonidas. 

"Yes,  he  seed  me  when  he  drug  de  man  down 
jam  by  de  branch,  an'  he  tol'  me  ef  I  eber  tell  he 
would  kill  me  too;  but  yer  know  Mars  Gabel  hain't 
treated  me  lak  he  uster,  sence  de  'Dark  Day.' 
Mars  Lonny — yer — knows — dars — er — ghost — in 
dat — woods.  Did — yer — eber — see — dat — ghost  ?" 

The  old  man  had  told  his  secret,  and  now  his 
voice  faltered,  and  his  breath  came  faster  and 
faster.  He  raised  his  hand  again  toward  Leonidas, 
and  said,  "Mars  Lonny,  take  ol'  Zeke  by  dis  han' 
an'  gib  Dinah  de  udder.  I's  in  de  ribber,  but  I 
hyard  sweet  m-u-s-i-c,  an'  I  sees  Pompey  an'  leetle 
Zeke.  I's  in  de  col'  worter,  but  de  udder  side  am 
mighty  bright,  Mars  Lonny." 


2o6         IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

Uncle  Zeke's  voice  was  now  but  a  whisper, 
though  it  was  evident  that  he  had  not  yet  said  the 
last  word.  With  renewed  strength  he  sat  upright, 
and  stretched  both  arms  out  toward  the  foot  of  the 
cot.  Leonidas  put  his  ear  to  his  lips  to  hear  what 
he  was  sure  would  be  his  last  words. 

"Mars  Lonny — Missis  Bel — lobes — yer.  Marry 
Missis  Bel; — an' —  Mars  Lonny — when — yer — an' 
Missis  Bel — gits — married,  gits — m-a-r-r-i-e-d — " 

There  was  a  rattling  sound  in  the  old  man's 
throat,  and  he  seemed  for  the  moment  to  be  gone, 
but  he  rallied  slightly,  only  to  finish  the  sentence: 

"Take —  take — take —  cyar — ob — ob —  ob — Di 
nah." 

And  Uncle  Zeke  was  dead.  In  death,  as  in  life, 
his  thought  was  for  the  welfare  of  those  he  loved. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 
•  % 

DR.  DEMSTER'S  WILL 

THE  next  day  at  three  o'clock  Leonidas  and  Isa 
bel  met  at  the  gum  log  in  the  pine  woods,  as  they 
had  planned.  The  death  of  Uncle  Zeke  was  so  sad  an 
event  for  each  of  them  that  they  could  say  little, 
except  to  express  their  grief  at  the  loss  of  their 
friend.  The  day  following  they  laid  the  faith 
ful  old  slave  to  rest  under  the  scuppernong  arbor, 
where  Isabel  had  sat  when  Uncle  Zeke  delivered 
the  letter  from  Leonidas.  There  were  only  a  few 
present,  and  Gabriel  Arnold  was  reported  by  Isabel 
to  be  so  unsettled  in  mind  that  he  had  not  been  in 
formed  of  Uncle  Zeke's  death.  She  said  little 
about  her  uncle,  and  assumed  responsibility  for  the 
funeral  arrangements. 

After  carefully  putting  the  last  sward  on  the 
grave,  and  when  all  were  gone  but  themselves,  Le 
onidas  and  Isabel  planted  a  sprig  of  weeping  wil 
low  at  the  old  man's  head.  They  then  turned  and 
walked  slowly  away  in  silence  toward  the  sycamore 
lane,  each  tearful  over  the  loss  of  the  gentle,  kindly 
old  man. 

"What  shall  I  do,  Leonidas?"  said  Isabel,  at 
last.  "Uncle  Zeke  is  gone ,  my  Uncle  Gabriel  is  be 
side  himself,  Aunt  Betty  stupid  and  morose  and 
poor  Dinah,  heartbroken!  What  shall  I  do?" 


208         IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

"Isabel,  dearest,  you  still  have  me,  for  I  am 
yours,"  he  answered,  taking  both  of  her  hands  into 
one  of  his,  and  with  the  other  smoothing  her  brow. 
"You  still  have  me  and  we'll  be  happy." 

They  had  now  entered  the  pines,  and  stood  near 
the  place  of  their  meeting  of  the  day  before. 

"No,  Leonidas,  no;  you  must  not  think  of  it.  I 
can  never  be  yours,  more  than  I  am  now." 

"Why,  Isabel!"  he  exclaimed  in  amazement, 
"why  do  you  say  that?  I  know  you're  mine,  but, 
dearest,  you  will  be  more  so  when  I  take  you  to  my 
breast  and  we  are  pronounced  one." 

"That  can  never  be,"  said  Isabel,  looking  into  his 
eyes ;  she  then  dropped  her  head  upon  his  shoulder 
and  began  to  weep.  "That  can  never  be." 

"Why — why — Isabel?  I  ask,  why?"  questioned 
Leonidas,  anxiously. 

"My  uncle,  my  uncle,"  wailed  Isabel,  as  she 
dropped  on  the  gum  log  and  hid  her  face  in  her 
hands,  sobbing  pitifully.  After  a  few  minutes  she 
raised  her  head,  and,  looking  through  her  tears, 
said,  "You  musn't  think  of  it  again.  It  is  impossi 
ble." 

"It  can  and  it  shall  be.  I  thought  we  understood 
it  all.  I  thought  we  had  settled  that  part  of  it  here 
just  the  other  day.  Why  do  you  raise  the  question 
about  your  uncle  again?" 

"If  you  knew  it  all,  Leonidas,  you  would  not  feel 
as  you  do  now.  You  must  not  be  embarrassed  by 
my  uncle's  wicked  life,  and — and — me." 

"Isabel,"  said  Leonidas,  as  he  took  a  place  by  her 
side,  "I  know  more  about  your  Uncle  Gabriel  now 


DR.  DEMSTER'S  WILL  209 

than  I  did  when  I  first  told  you  that  I  loved  you." 

"And  still  do  you  love  me,  and  wish  me  to  be 
yours?"  she  asked,  fearing  she  knew  only  in  part 
how  far  his  knowledge  went. 

"Isabel,  listen  to  me.  I  love  you,  and  you  shall 
be  mine.  I  love  you  for  what  you  are,  and,  it  does 
not  matter  what  your  uncle  proves  to  be,  I  shall 
still  love  you — even  if — " 

"If  he  should  be  guilty  of  some  heinous  crime?" 
interrupted  Isabel,  catching  Leonidas  by  the  arm. 

"Yes,  no  matter  what,"  he  answered,  with  em 
phasis.  "It  would  be  no  fault  of  yours,  and  you 
should  in  no  sense  be  blamed  for  what  he  has  done. 
Dearest  Isabel,  it  will  not  change  my  love  for  you, 
or  my  purpose  concerning  you.  Hear  me,  you 
shall  be  mine.  Yes,  you  are  mine,  now.  Are  you 
not,  Isabel?  Tell  me." 

"Should  you  not  wait  until  you  know  more  about 
my  uncle?"  asked  Isabel,  "and  more  about  me?" 

"I  know  it  now,"  answered  Leonidas,  not  seem 
ing  to  notice  Isabel's  personal  allusion.  "I  know 
he  has  been  wicked,  and  is  now  deranged  on  ac 
count  of  his  sinful  life.  I  do  not  wish  to  know 
more  about  your  uncle,  but  I  must  know  that  you 
will  not  allow  his  wickedness  to  influence  you  in  the 
matter  that  is  so  vital  to  me.  Won't  yon  promise 
me?" 

"Wait  until  you  come  to  Briarcrest  again,"  an 
swered  Isabel.  "We  both  may  know  more  then. 
I  am  now  concerned  about  Uncle  Gabriel,  and  do 
not  know  what  to  do  with  him.  He  does  not  yet 
know  that  Uncle  Zeke  is  dead." 


2io         IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

"Dr.  Demster  is  needed,"  said  Leonidas,  "and 
I  will  hurry  to  the  Creek  to  fetch  him.  A  consul 
tation  may  be  necessary,  and  this  may  result  in  a 
decision  to  commit  him  to  the  asylum  for  the  in 
sane.  I  think  this  would  be  the  proper  disposition 
of  his  case.  Once  in  the  asylum  he  would  be  se 
cure,  and  you  would  be  relieved  of  much  anxiety. 
I  will  have  Dr.  Demster  here  to-morrow.  Isabel, 
dearest,  be  brave,"  said  Leonidas,  embracing  her 
tenderly.  "Trust  me.  I'll  be  back  to-morrow. 
Good-bye." 

Isabel  hurried  back  to  the  house  to  make  the  best 
of  a  bad  situation  for  another  night  and  a  day,  and 
Leonidas  was  off  for  Deep  Creek,  over  the  way 
he  had  chosen  to  go  the  first  time. 

That  evening,  about  dusk,  Leonidas  stood  at  Dr. 
Demster's  office  door.  He  was  just  about  to  rap, 
when  he  hesitated  to  interrupt  the  soliloquy  of  some 
one  in  the  room.  An  instant  revealed  it  to  be  the 
old  physician  himself,  for  his  long-drawn  words 
and  his  nasal  twang  were  familiar  to  all  who  knew 
him.  His  was  one  of  those  peculiar  voices  that  if 
heard  once  is  never  forgotten.  Leonidas  was 
certain  he  was  not  mistaken,  and  paused  that  the 
doctor  might  become  silent  before  he  entered. 

"This  is  my  will,"  the  voice  went  on.  "I  am 
going  to  leave  it  all  to  him.  Yes,  every  bit  of  it, 
and  nobody  else  shall  have  any  of  it.  Demster's 
got  no  other  friend,  and  has  not  wanted  any  other 
since  he  came  into  my  life.  How  true  and  manly 
he's  been !  Yes,  all  I've  got  shall  be  his.  When  he 
comes  again  I'll  show  him  where  some  of  it  is. 


DR.  DEMSTER'S  WILL  211 

The  poor  boy  may  need  something  before  I  die, 
and  he  shall  have  it.  Did  I  say  die?  Yes,  die;  for 
I  am  weary  of  life.  I  wonder  what  would  be  the  fate 
of  a  miserable  old  man  who  died  by  his  own  hands  ? 
How  easy  it  would  be!  When  the  provisions  of 
this  will  are  known  I  don't  care  to  live  longer. 
Hello!  Who's  that?" 

Leonidas  rapped  on  the  office  door,  then  entered, 
and  found  Dr.  Demster  sitting  with  his  elbows  on 
the  table,  and  his  head  supported  by  his  hands.  A 
document  was  spread  out  before  him  and  he  made 
no  effort  to  conceal  it. 

"It's  you,  Lonny,  my  boy,"  said  the  doctor, 
gladly.  "I've  been  wishing  you'd  come.  I've  been 
thinking  about  you,  and  talking  about  you,  too.  It's 
always  been  to  myself,  and  not  to  others,  that  I've 
talked  when  I  thought  about  you.  They  tell  me 
"  when  an  old  man  talks  to  himself  he's  talking  to 
the  devil,  but  I  don't  believe  that.  I  know  it's  not 
true  when  I've  talked  about  you.  The  subject's 
too  good." 

"I  fear  the  devil  thinks  about  me  a  great  deal, 
Doctor.  Indeed,  he  seems  to  pursue  me  persist 
ently,  and  every  once  in  a  while  I  have  a  hand-to- 
hand  struggle  with  him.  He  seems  to  be  my  ad 
versary,  and  attempts  frequently  to  hedge  up  my 
way." 

"You  must  have  come  into  contact  with  old  Ga 
briel  Arnold,"  said  the  doctor,  knowingly.  "He's 
more  like  the  devil  than  anybody  else  in  Tide 
water.  But  I  told  you  to  look  out  for  him.  Have 
you  ever  encountered  him?" 


212          IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

"No,  not  personally,"  said  Leonidas,  slowly, 
"but  I've  come  into  contact  with  Captain  Vantine, 
and  he  is  very  nearly  as  bad  as  Gabriel  Arnold." 

"Captain  Vantine!  Why,  what's  he  done?"  de 
manded  the  doctor. 

"Shot  me  here,"  said  Leonidas,  pointing  to  his 
side.  "It's  not  much  of  a  wound,  but  he  intended 
to  kill  me.  He  was  ready  to  fire  a  second  time, 
and  would  have  done  so,  but  my  friend  Ezra  was 
sent  by  Providence  just  in  time  to  prevent  him. 
But,  Doctor,  you  don't  believe  in  the  doctrine  of 
Providence,  and  I  should  not  have  introduced  it 
here." 

The  old  man  arose  and  insisted  upon  examining 
the  wound,  which  he  pronounced  well  cared  for 
and  of  slight  significance.  He  put  his  arms  about 
the  neck  of  Leonidas,  and  hugged  him  tightly. 
Then  releasing  his  hold  he  said  earnestly,  with  tears 
in  his  eyes: 

"I  do  believe  in  Providence,  my  boy.  I  didn't 
once.  I  didn't  before  you  came  into  my  life.  I  ac 
cept  what  you  believe.  It  must  be  true  or  you 
would  not  believe  it.  Teach  me,  my  boy.  You 
know  about  such  things  better  than  I  do.  My  life 
has  been  spent  considering  hard  things,  and  I  have 
wasted  much  time  trying  to  doubt,  and  you  don't 
know  how  difficult  it  would  be  for  me  to  find  the 
right  way.  But  your  Bible  speaks  about  a  little 
child  leading  older  people.  Now,  I  want  you  to 
be  my  teacher  and  lead  me  out  of  this  fog.  I  can't 
live  long,  and  I  know  your  chances  are  better  than 
mine.  I  would  so  much  like  to  have  your  faith. 


DR.  DEMSTER'S  WILL  213 

Lonny,  my  boy;  you'll  tell  me  about  that,  won't 
you?" 

"O,  it  will  be  a  pleasure  to  me,  Doctor." 

"Then  I  am  content,"  said  the  doctor,  taking 
his  seat  again,  and  inviting  Leonidas  to  sit  down 
by  his  side. 

"This  is  for  you,"  said  the  doctor,  pointing  to 
the  document  on  the  table.  "This  is  why  I  have 
been  wishing  you  would  come.  It  is  my  will.  I've 
just  written  it,  and  have  mentioned  you  by  name. 
All  I  have  will  be  yours  in  time.  If  Annie  had  only 
lived;  my  Annie!  Well,  she  sickened  and  died.  All 
I  have  shall  be  yours.  Some  of  it  you  can't  get 
until  I  die,  but  some  of  it  you  will  need  before. 
Come  with  me  and  I  will  show  you." 

The  doctor  arose  and  walked  slowly  to  the 
northeast  corner  of  the  room  to  the  box  that  con 
tained  Pompey's  bones,  and  took  from  it  an  iron 
rod,  sharpened  at  one  end. 

"This  will  tell  us  where  it  is,"  he  said,  as  he 
started  for  the  door,  and  beckoned  Leonidas  to  fol 
low. 

As  they  passed  through  the  kitchen,  the  doctor 
took  a  lantern  that  was  hanging  to  an  exposed 
beam  and,  without  lighting,  handed  it  to  Leonidas, 
saying,  "This  may  be  of  use  to  us  before  we  re 
turn."  The  two  passed  out  of  the  door,  entering 
the  path  that  led  in  the  direction  of  the  creek. 

They  felt  their  way,  in  the  darkness,  around  the 
edge  of  the  water  until  they  came  to  the  willow 
tree  under  which  Dr.  Demster  was  wont  to  spend 
much  time  in  reverie.  f 

15 


214         IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

"It  is  not  far  from  here,  through  the  thicket 
yonder,"  said  the  doctor.  "That's  where  I  want 
you  to  go  with  me.  I'll  lead  the  way  and  you 
follow." 

They  came  to  a  thick  growth  of  muscadine, 
back  of  which  was  a  dense  thicket.  The  doctor 
pushed  back  the  undergrowth  with  the  rod,  then 
bent  upon  hands  and  knees,  crawling  through  the 
path,  with  Leonidas  following  closely  behind  him. 
After  creeping  for  a  hundred  yards  or  more  they 
came  to  a  small  clearing  in  the  midst  of  which 
stood  a  medium-sized  beech  tree. 

"This  is  the  place.  We'll  stop  here,"  said  the 
doctor.  "Light  the  lantern.  We  shall  need  it 
now." 

Leonidas  did  as  the  doctor  said,  and  watched  to 
see  what  was  next  to  be  done.  It  was  not  clear  to 
him  just  why  he  had  been  brought  to  this  lonely 
spot.  He  called  to  mind  that  part  in  the  soliloquy 
wherein  the  doctor  had  expressed  himself  as  being 
weary  of  life,  and  wondered  if  this  were  where  he 
wished  to  be  buried. 

"Why — why,  Doctor!"  exclaimed  Leonidas, 
tremblingly. 

"This  is  the  place,  my  boy,  and  this  will  tell  why 
we  came  and  what  I  want  you  to  know,"  said  the 
doctor,  as  he  took  the  iron  rod  and  stuck  it  in  the 
ground  not  more  than  three  feet  from  the  body  of 
the  tree.  "Take  this,  and  run  it  down  here." 

Leonidas  took  the  rod  and  put  his  weight  upon  it, 
forcing  it  into  the  ground,  until  it  stopped  suddenly 
against  a  hard  substance. 


DR.  DEMSTER'S  WILL  215 

"Have  you  hit  it?"  asked  the  doctor. 

"Yes,  Doctor,"  said  Leonidas;  "but  what  is  it? 
The  rod  can  go  no  farther." 

"Then  I  struck  the  spot  the  first  time,"  said  the 
doctor,  with  satisfaction.  "What  you  feel  is  the 
top  of  an  iron  pot.  I  buried  it  here  when  the  war 
began.  It  is  filled  with  gold,  but  I  do  not  know 
just  how  much  it  contains.  There  are  several 
thousand  dollars  though,  I'm  sure.  The  banks 
are  insecure,  and  the  safest  place  for  money  is  in 
the  ground  in  a  good  quiet  place  like  this.  This  is 
why  I  put  it  here." 

The  old  man  paused,  as  if  to  listen,  then  putting 
his  lips  to  Leonidas's  ear  he  said:  "This  is  for 
you  when  you  need  it.  Come  here  some  night  like 
this  one,  and  dig  it  up.  Besides  this,  all  I  have  will 
be  yours  in  time." 

"O,  Doctor,  do  you  mean  it?"  asked  Leonidas, 
overcome  by  such  fortune.  "How  could  you  give 
me  all  you  have?  I'm  not  even  related  to  you,  but 
only  a  friend.  How  can  you  do  it!" 

'  "You're  not  my  relative,"  said  the  doctor,  "but 
you're  more.  You  are  my  friend.  Yes,  you,  in  a 
sense,  are  my  saviour.  You  have  come  into  my  old 
age,  when  I  was  so  sad  and  lonely.  You  have  saved 
me  from  doubt  and  wickedness;  and  all  I  have  is 
yours.  Do  as  I  bid  you  with  it.  All  I  ask  is  that 
when  you  and  Isabel  are  married,  which  I  trust 
will  be  very  soon,  you  will  let  me  come  and  visit 
you  once  in  a  while,  to  see  how  happy  you  are.  I 
can  then  fancy  how  my  Annie  and  I  would  have 
been  had  she  lived  to  sweeten  my  life." 


216         IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

The  doctor  and  Leonidas  retraced  their  steps 
and  were  soon  again  in  the  office. 

The  young  man  was  lost  in  wonder  at  the  sud 
den  turn  in  his  affairs,  for  up  to  this  time  he  had 
not  been  earning  much  more  than  enough  to  meet 
the  expenses  of  a  scant  living  at  Audierne.  Now 
abundance  was  in  sight,  and  he  found  it  difficult 
to  realize  that  it  was  true.  But  here  before  his 
eyes  were  the  provisions  of  Dr.  Demster's  will, 
which  committed  the  whole  of  his  large  fortune  to 
him. 

The  old  physician  saw  the  young  man's  surprise 
was  so  great  that  it  was  not  easy  to  adjust  himself 
to  the  new  and  changed  conditions. 

"Where  did  you  come  from,  Leonidas,  and  what 
did  you  want?" 

"I  came  from  Briarcrest,  Doctor,  and  must  tell 
you  that  things  there  are  in  a  pitiful  plight.  The 
old  slave,  Zeke,  is  dead  and  buried ;  and  Mr.  Arnold 
is  mad — sometimes  morose,  and  at  other  times  rav 
ing.  I  wish  you  would  go  to-morrow  and  see  what 
is  best  to  be  done.  Some  steps  will  have  to  be  taken 
or  Isabel  will  be  prostrated  with  worry.  Will  you 
go  to-morrow,  Doctor?" 

"Yes,  I'll  go,"  said  the  doctor,  "and  relieve  the 
situation  as  far  as  possible.  But  have  you  learned 
what  the  trouble  is  with  old  Gabe  Arnold?  You 
know  what  my  suspicions  have  been,  and  my  mind 
has  not  changed  concerning  him.  I  believe  that 
he  has  committed  some  awful  crime  that  has  been 
preying  on  his  mind  until  his  brain  has  given  away 
under  the  strain.  And,  do  you  know,  I  am  inclined 


DR.  DEMSTER'S  WILL  217 

to  believe  that  when  all  the  facts  about  Gabe  Ar 
nold's  trouble  are  known,  the  mystery  that  sur 
rounds  Count  de  Bussy's  death  will  be  un 
raveled." 

"Your  reasoning  is  correct,  Doctor,"  said  Leoni- 
das.  "I  have  all  the  facts  necessary  to  show  the 
truth  of  your  conclusion.  Uncle  Zeke,  when  dying, 
told  me  the  whole  story,  and  it  is  just  as  you  sup 
pose.  The  very  worst  is  true.  Mr.  Arnold  mur 
dered  the  Count  on  the  spot  where  I  found  the 
medal,  and  murdered  him,  too,  to  obtain  a  few 
paltry  dollars ;  for  he  robbed  his  pockets  as  soon  as 
he  was  dead.  But  there  is  one  part  of  Zeke's  story 
I  wish  to  verify." 

"What?"  exclaimed  the  doctor,  his  interest  at 
fever  heat. 

"Uncle  Zeke  said  that  Mr.  Arnold,  in  searching 
the  Count's  dead  body,  found  a  paper,  and  that  he 
said  it  was  written  in  French,  but  instead  of  tear 
ing  it  up,  as  almost  anybody  would  have  done,  he 
put  it  into  a  hollow  tree.  I  wish  to  find  that  paper 
if  I  can." 

"Then  the  old  negro  must  have  seen  the  crime 
committed,"  said  the  doctor,  in  astonishment. 
"Was  he  in  any  way  implicated  ?" 

"Not  in  the  least.  He  was  simply  in  the  woods, 
and  his  master  did  not  observe  him  until  it  was  all 
over." 

"This,  then,  is  the  reason  why  old  Zeke  has  had 
such  a  grip  on  Gabe  Arnold,"  said  the  doctor. 
"And  then — to  think  of  it! — he  has  been  carrying 
that  dreadful  secret  all  these  weeks.  You  are  quite 


218         IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

right  about  that  paper.  It  will  verify  old  Zeke's 
story,  and  it  will  probably  throw  some  light  upon 
the  Count's  business  that  some  of  us  would  like  to 
have.  Get  that  paper  by  all  means,  Leonidas." 

"Doctor,  what  is  the  best  disposition  to  make  of 
Mr.  Arnold,"  asked  Leonidas,  "assuming  that  he 
was  responsible  for  the  death  of  Count  de  Bussy?" 

"The  only  disposition  now  is  to  send  him  to  Wil- 
liamsburg.  No  one  knows  of  the  crime  but  you 
and  me;  and  it  is  not  worth  while  to  embarrass 
what  few  friends  he  has  and  to  bring  disgrace 
upon  his  innocent  niece.  He  will  probably  not  live 
long  anyway;  so  the  best  place  for  him  is  the  asy 
lum  and  we  will  hurry  him  off  as  soon  as  pos 
sible." 

"I  share  your  opinion,"  said  Leonidas,  eagerly. 
"I  have  thought,  in  view  of  all  the  circumstances, 
that  this  would  be  proper.  If  he  were  sane,  and 
simply  trying  to  conceal  his  crime,  I  should  not 
carry  his  secret  a  day  longer,  but  as  it  now  stands 
I  am  willing  to  do  as  you  suggest  in  the  matter." 

"Would  you  tell  it  and  marry  Isabel,  too?"  asked 
the  doctor,  curiously. 

"Yes,  I  would  tell  it,  and  marry  Isabel,  with  all 
the  opprobrium  it  might  bring.  She  is  not  re 
sponsible  for  her  wicked  uncle,  and  should  not  be 
compelled  to  suffer  unnecessarily  on  his  account. 
The  poor  girl  has  already  had  more  sorrow  than 
enough,  and  she  will  not  suffer  when  her  uncle  is 
committed  to  the  asylum." 

"You're  a  true  man,"  said  the  doctor,  "and  I 
think  the  more  of  you  for  the  position  you  take. 


DR.  DEMSTER'S  WILL  219 

Not  every  man  would  like  to  take  to  himself  the 
niece  of  a  man  who  has  been  executed  as  a  common 
murderer." 

"I  would,  when  that  niece  is  Isabel  Proctor,  Doc 
tor,"  said  Leonidas,  and  his  voice  and  form  seemed 
majestic  as  he  spoke  the  words. 

"That  will  do,"  answered  the  doctor,  patting  Le 
onidas  on  the  shoulder,  "I  will  go  to  Briarcrest  to 
morrow  and  you  shall  go  with  me." 


CHAPTER  XXV 
THE  HOLLOW  TREE 

THE  next  day,  just  as  the  sun  was  sinking  behind 
the  juniper  and  the  cypress  trees  of  the  Great 
Swamp,  Dr.  Demster  and  Leonidas  crossed  the  Deep 
Creek  bridge  and  soon  disappeared  around  a  bend  in 
the  road.  Clouds,  borne  upon  the  breeze,  were  fly 
ing  across  the  sky,  obscuring,  at  intervals,  the  full 
moon;  so  it  was  quite  dark  as  the  doctor's  flea- 
bitten  gray  mare  jogged  up  to  the  worm  fence  that 
bounded  Briarcrest  on  the  south.  Having  hitched 
the  mare,  and  helped  the  doctor  over  the  rails, 
Leonidas  led  the  way  down  the  path  in  the  direction 
of  the  big  pine,  all  the  while  looking  about  him  to 
see  if  the  man  in  white  would  again  make  his  ap 
pearance. 

They  had  not  gone  far  when  a  figure  could  be 
distinctly  seen  sitting  under  the  pine  tree  on  the 
same  spot.  He  was  holding  his  hand  to  his  head, 
just  the  same  as  the  man  in  white  had  done.  Be 
tween  his  groans,  they  could  distinctly  hear  him 
cry,  "O,  if  I  only  had  not  done  it!"  He  then  ran 
into  the  branch,  walking  back  and  forth  in  the 
water.  Presently  he  came  to  the  tree  again — all 
the  while  holding  his  hand  to  his  head.  Though 
the  man  was  not  now  attired  in  white,  still  Leonidas 
was  convinced  that  he  was  the  same  man,  and  that 


THE  HOLLOW  TREE  221 

it  was  Gabriel  Arnold.  He  touched  Dr.  Demster 
on  the  shoulder  to  attract  his  attention. 

"That's  Gabe  Arnold  now,"  said  the  doctor. 
"We'll  go  to  him.  What  say  you?" 

The  doctor's  high-pitched  voice  penetrated  the 
forest,  and  Arnold  heard  it.  He  ran  through  the 
branch  and  leaped  into  the  path,  and  then  through 
the  woods,  crying  as  he  ran : 

"They  are  coming !  They'll  get  me !  They'll  get 
me!  Zeke,  I  told  you  not  to  tell." 

"This  is  the  place,"  said  Leonidas  to  Dr.  Dem 
ster,  as  they  paused  under  the  tree  where  Arnold 
had  been  sitting. 

"This  is  where  I  found  the  medal,  and  this  is 
the  place  where  Count  de  Bussy  met  his  fate.  I 
suppose  the  crime  has  haunted  Gabriel  Arnold  to 
such  an  extent  that  in  his  delirium  he  has  wandered 
down  here.  Is  it  not  strange  that  he  frequents  the 
scene  of  his  crime?  I  am  sure  now  it  was  he  whom 
Uncle  Zeke  saw  and  thought  to  be  a  ghost." 

"How  about  the  paper  that  Zeke  told  you  of?" 
asked  the  doctor,  indicating  that  he  felt  great  in 
terest  in  the  writing,  whatever  it  might  prove  to  be. 
"Can  you  locate  the  tree?  Did  you  say  it  was  a 
gum  tree  ?" 

"Yes,  it  was  a  gum  tree,  and  this  is  it,  I  think," 
said  Leonidas,  as  he  turned  and  walked  over  to  a 
tree  which  stood  near.  "I  am  sure  this  is  the  one. 
Come  and  see." 

Leonidas  was  soon  on  the  ground,  feeling  about 
the  root  of  the  tree  for  the  entrance  to  the  hollow 
in  which  Arnold  had  concealed  the  paper. 


222         IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

"I've  found  it,"  exclaimed  Leonidas. 

"What!  the  paper?"  asked  the  doctor,  excitedly. 

"No,  the  hollow,"  said  Leonidas,  "but  I  feel  sure 
the  paper  is  not  far  away.  Uncle  Zeke  knew  what 
he  was  talking  about." 

By  this  time  the  old  doctor  was  upon  the  ground 
anxiously  watching  the  movements  of  Leonidas  as 
he  groped  after  the  paper.  Feeling  about  in  all 
directions,  his  hand  seemed  to  stray  away  into  one 
of  the  great  roots  which  had  rotted  like  the  body  of 
the  tree.  Many  inches  down  in  this  hollow  he  felt 
a  paper,  which  he  hoped  would  prove  to  be  the  ob 
ject  of  his  search. 

"I've  got  it,  Doctor.    It's  ours  at  last." 

He  drew  the  paper  out,  and  carefully  straightened 
it,  and  handed  it  to  the  doctor,  while  he  made  a 
light  by  setting  fire  to  some  dry  leaves.  Sure 
enough,  it  was  written  in  the  French  language, 
but  had  been  torn  at  the  bottom,  and  had  neither 
name  nor  date.  With  this  defect  much  of  its  value 
was  gone.  Leonidas  again  put  his  hand  into  the 
hollow,  and  found  hanging  on  a  splinter  a  much 
smaller  piece  of  paper  of  the  same  texture,  and  an 
examination  and  comparison  showed  that  it  had 
been  torn  from  the  original  writing. 

Placing  it  in  the  light  of  the  fire  they  saw  the 
reward  of  their  effort  confronting  them.  On  the 
right  side  of  the  slip  of  paper,  and  near  the  bot 
tom  edge  was  simply  the  word,  "Napoleon,"  while 
beginning  on  the  left,  and  ending  nearly  across  the 
sheet,  were  the  words,  "Thouvenel,  Minister  of 
Foreign  Affairs."  While  still  below  this,  and  in 


THE  HOLLOW  TREE  223 

the  left  corner  of  the  paper,  were  the  words,  "Comte 
de  Bussy,  Commissioner  to  the  Confederate  States 
Government." 

In  his  excitement  the  doctor  began:  "It's  writ 
ten  in  cipher,  and  surely  is  of  great  importance,  but 
de  Bussy  has  translated  it  into  plain  French,  so  it 
is  easy  to  read.  By  the  Eternal!  It's  the  Count's 
private  instructions  from  Napoleon  to  President 
Davis.  Let  us  see  what  it  says :" 

"His  Majesty  the  Emperor  of  the  French,  tak 
ing  into  consideration  the  present  success  and  the 
future  prospects  of  the  Confederate  States  of  Amer 
ica,  directs  that  you,  Comte  de  Bussy,  be  a  Com 
missioner  to  the  said  Confederate  States,  and  that 
you  proceed  at  once  to  Richmond,  the  capital,  to 
confer  with  the  President  and  Secretary  of  State 
concerning  matters  looking  to  the  proper  recogni 
tion  of  their  government  by  the  Empire  of  France. 
Proceed  with  great  caution,  and  do  not  commit 
His  Majesty's  Government  to  any  policy  without 
first  reporting  the  attitude  of  the  Confederacy 
touching  the  following  points: 

"I.  The  reestablishment  of  the  Republic  of 
Texas.  It  is  highly  important  for  the  interest  of 
the  French  Empire  in  America  to  have  a  weaker, 
though  an  apparently  independent,  power  between 
the  Confederate  States  and  Mexico,  though  in  fact, 
under  the  protection  of  His  Majesty's  Government. 
Confer  with  Theron,  French  Consul  in  Texas. 

"II.  The  abolition  of  slavery.  The  English  are 
not  willing  for  an  Anglo-French  recognition  of  the 
Confederate  States  while  slavery  is  maintained. 


224         IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

Ascertain  if  the  Richmond  Government  will  con 
cede  this  point  if  recognition  can  thereby  be  accom 
plished.  "NAPOLEON. 
"Thouvenel,  Minister  of  Foreign  Affairs. 

"Comte  de  Bussy,  Commissioner  to  Confederate 
States  Government." 

"Great  guns!"  exclaimed  the  doctor,  greatly  ex 
cited,  "this  is  conclusive.  It  is  evident  that  de 
Bussy  was  murdered  here,  as  it  corroborates  Zeke's 
story.  And  the  finding  of  this,  his  private  instruc 
tion  from  Napoleon  III,  shows  exactly  what  he  was 
doing  in  the  Confederacy.  I'm  sorry  he  was  mur 
dered,  but  I  shall  be  glad  if  the  whole  project  come 
to  grief.  If  it  can  be  prevented,  I  trust  it  will  not 
succeed." 

The  doctor  was  silent  for  a  few  moments  before 
he  spoke  again: 

"Think  of  it.  Napoleon's  pretensions  are  not  gen 
uine  after  all.  He  is  a  selfish  old  scoundrel ;  an  old 
hypocrite.  See  what  he  says  about  Texas.  He 
wants  to  make  an  independent  republic  out  of 
Texas  and  wedge  it  in  between  the  Confederate 
States  and  Mexico.  President  Davis  will  never  con 
sent  to  that.  And  this  is  why  Count  de  Bussy  was 
here!  I  trust  the  project  will  not  succeed.  Then 
he  wishes  slavery  abolished  before  he  recognizes 
the  Confederacy.  What  would  the  South  do  with 
out  slavery?  We  might  as  well  let  all  go  as  yield 
this  point.  Pshaw!  The  South  had  better  fight 
it  out  fairly  and  squarely,  and  win  or  be  defeated 
without  this  deceitful  Emperor.  I  will  write  Davis 
my  views  on  the  subject,  and  tell  him  that  Napo- 


THE  HOLLOW  TREE  225 

Icon  will  only  favor  the  Confederacy  when  it  is 
to  his  own  advantage  to  do  so,  and  not  before." 

Leonidas  rose  quickly,  greatly  surprised. 

"You  may  well  be  shocked  at  the  Emperor,"  said 
the  doctor,  as  he  himself  stood  and  took  Leonidas 
by  the  hand. 

"I'm  not  surprised  at  the  Emperor,"  said  the 
young  man,  excitedly,  "but  I  heard  an  unusual 
sound.  It  was  a  human  voice — whether  of  man  or 
woman,  I  cannot  say." 


CHAPTER  XXVI 
THE  SUICIDE 

The  doctor  passed  the  document  to  Leonidas, 
who  folded  it  hastily,  putting  it  into  the  inside 
pocket  of  his  coat.  The  two  then  made  their  way 
through  the  pines  toward  Arnold's  home.  When 
they  emerged  from  the  thicket,  and  approached  the 
house,  they  detected  a  commotion  on  the  front  ve 
randa. 

The  doctor  and  Leonidas  were  in  the  nick  of 
time,  for  it  proved  to  be  Isabel  making  a  desperate 
effort  to  restrain  her  Uncle  Gabriel,  who  was  at 
that  moment  in  a  paroxysm  of  delirium,  and  it  was 
his  voice  that  Leonidas  had  heard  while  at  the  hol 
low  tree. 

"We  are  just  in  time,"  said  Leonidas,  quickly, 
as  he  leaped  upon  the  veranda  and  put  his  hand  on 
Arnold's  shoulder.  "We'll  take  care  of  him  now, 
Isabel." 

"O,  they've  got  me!  They've  got  me,  Isabel! 
O!  O!"  screamed  Arnold,  as  Leonidas  pulled  him 
toward  the  door. 

"We  will  not  hurt  you,  Mr.  Arnold,"  said  Le 
onidas,  quietly,  "we  wish  only  to  do  the  proper 
thing  for  you.  Come  into  the  house." 

Arnold  screamed  again,  "They've  got  me,  they've 
got  me  at  last."  Then,  after  a  brief  silence,  he 


- 


THE  SUICIDE  227 

said  in  a  subdued  tone,  "Zeke,  I  told  you  not  to 
tell." 

In  a  moment  Isabel  had  opened  the  door  and 
Leonidas  forced  her  uncle  into  the  hall,  and  then 
to  his  room,  with  Dr.  Demster  following  closely  be 
hind.  When  in  the  bedchamber  Arnold  again  be 
came  violent,  and  struggled  desperately  to  escape, 
not  seeming  to  recognize  either  the  doctor  or  Isa 
bel.  He  had  never  seen  Leonidas  before.  The 
climax  of  his  madness  was  reached  when  he 
glanced  toward  the  corner  of  the  room  where  the 
hickory  club  was  standing  with  which  he  commit 
ted  the  murder. 

There  was  a  blood  stain  on  the  stick,  which  had 
been  there  since  the  day  of  the  tragedy.  Arnold 
had  not  observed  it  until  this  moment.  The  sight 
of  the  blood  made  him  frantic,  and  he  became  al 
most  uncontrollable.  Insane  as  he  was,  he  still 
could  live  through  the  tragedy  of  the  "Dark  Day," 
on  whch  Count  de  Bussy  met  his  fate.  His  strug 
gles  were  overcome;  for  Leonidas  held  him  tightly 
in  his  grasp  upon  the  floor  pressing  the  knees 
against  his  breast.  Dr.  Demster  administered  an 
opiate  and  Arnold  soon  lay  unconscious,  breathing 
in  short  snatches  like  a  dying  man.  He  was  then 
placed  upon  the  bed. 

"What  shall  we  do  with  him,  Doctor?"  asked 
Leonidas. 

"Let  him  rest  for  a  while,"  answered  the  doctor, 
"then  we  shall  consult  the  authorities  and  conform 
to  the  Virginia  law.  When  this  is  done,  we  shall 
hurry  him  off  to  the  asylum  for  the  insane.  He  is 


228         IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

hopelessly  crazy.  I  am  sure  he  will  not  live  long, 
but  while  he  does  live  he  is  certain  to  be  violent, 
and  should  be  under  the  care  of  those  who  are  pre 
pared  to  treat  a  man  in  his  condition." 

"There  are  times  when  he  is  quite  sane,"  re 
marked  Isabel,  "or  appears  to  be  so.  Just  the  other 
day  he  seemed  rational,  and  wrote  what  I  suspect 
was  a  letter.  He  concealed  it  somewhere  and  I 
have  not  yet  found  it.  I  do  not  know  what  he  was 
writing,  but  I  am  certain  it  was  a  matter  of  inter 
est  and  importance.  No,  Doctor,  my  uncle  is  not 
totally  insane,  though  at  times  he  is  wild  and  un 
manageable.  While  you  and  Leonidas  are  here 
let  me  search  for  that  letter." 

"Are  you  sure  you  are  right,  in  the  plan  you  pro 
pose?"  asked  Leonidas,  when  Isabel  had  closed 
the  door  behind  her.  "Is  it  right,  after  all,  that  Mr. 
Arnold's  crime  should  be  kept  from  the  authorities  ? 
It  may  be  as  she  says,  that  he  is  not  absolutely  in 
sane,  and  that  there  are  times  when  he  is  rational, 
and  knows  what  he  is  doing.  This  makes  him  re 
sponsible.  It  seems  to  me  the  authorities  should 
know  about  it." 

"No;  never,  never.  He  is  a  fit  subject  for  the 
asylum.  Let  them  keep  him  until  he  is  restored  to 
his  reason,  if  he  ever  is.  My  opinion  is  that  he 
will  not  live  long  and  this  will  solve  the  difficulty." 

"How  about  Count  de  Bussy's  wife?"  asked  Le 
onidas.  "Should  she  not  know  that  the  Count  will 
never  return?  The  poor  thing  is  wild  with  sus 
pense.  She  would  be  far  better  off  to  know  the 
truth  concerning  him." 


THE  SUICIDE  229 

"Don't  be  in  too  great  a  hurry  to  do  right,  my 
boy,"  said  the  doctor.  "Let  us  go  slowly.  It  will 
do  no  harm  to  commit  him  to  the  asylum,  and  await 
results.  When  he  recovers  his  mind  it  will  be 
time  enough  to  think  of  the  next  course  to  pursue. 
I'll  be  back  soon." 

The  doctor  left  Leonidas  with  Gabriel  Arnold, 
as  Isabel  returned  from  a  fruitless  search  for  the 
letter. 

"What  did  the  doctor  say  about  Uncle  Gabriel?" 
Isabel  asked,  softly. 

Leonidas  was  bending  over  Arnold's  body  and 
did  not  hear  what  she  said.  He  seemed  to  be  listen 
ing,  rather,  to  what  fell  from  the  lips  of  her  uncle, 
who  muttered  as  he  slept.  Isabel  approached 
Leonidas  and  put  her  hand  upon  his  shoulder  be 
fore  he  observed  that  she  was  near  him. 

"What  did  the  doctor  say?"  she  asked  again, 
as  Leonidas  rose  and  led  the  way  to  the  other  side 
of  the  room. 

"That  your  uncle  is  insane,  and  must  be  commit 
ted  to  the  asylum,  Isabel;  but  somehow  or  other  I 
feel  that  the  doctor  is  mistaken.  I  can't  explain  it, 
but  I  have  a  presentiment  that  his  case  will  termi 
nate  in  some  other  way.  Whether  it  will  be  better 
or  worse  I  do  not  know.  I  don't  believe  he  will 
go  to  the  asylum.  I  did  think  this  at  first,  but  my 
mind  has  changed  and  I  do  not  know  why." 

"I  feel  that  something  awful  will  happen,  too, 
Leonidas,"  said  Isabel,  wringing  her  hands  and  be 
ginning  to  weep. 

Leonidas  lifted  Isabel's  head  until  her  eyes,  red 

16 


230         IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

and  heavy  from  weeping,  looked  pitifully  up  to  his 
own,  and  said,  "No  matter  what  happens,  dearest 
Isabel,  we'll  be  happy." 

"How  can  I  ever  be  happy,  when  there  is  so  much 
evil  surrounding  my  life?"  asked  Isabel.  "Can  I 
ever  forget  the  sadness  of  my  life?" 

"But  you  are  mine,  Isabel.  Be  brave,  and  let  us 
trust  for  a  brighter  day." 

"O,  O,  O!"  cried  Isabel,  in  a  shrill  voice,  that 
made  Leonidas  wonder  what  had  happened.  "Look ! 
Look!  Uncle!  My  uncle!  See!  See!" 

Leonidas  turned  quickly,  and  was  startled  to  ob 
serve  Arnold  sitting  upon  the  side  of  his  bed  with 
a  bright  steel  blade  in  his  hand.  He  raised  the 
knife  in  his  right  hand  and,  with  the  left  hand  point 
ing  toward  a  small  cupboard  in  the  northeast  cor 
ner  of  the  room,  said,  "There !  It's  there — Isabel !" 

Before  another  word  could  be  spoken  or  a  step 
taken  Gabriel  Arnold  had  plunged  the  knife  into 
his  breast,  and  falling  back  upon  the  bed  left  the 
blade  sticking  in  his  body. 

Isabel  rushed  to  where  Arnold  lay,  and  with  an 
impulse  as  quick  as  thought  she  snatched  the  knife 
and  threw  it  upon  the  floor.  Then,  as  if  by  some 
reaction  in  her  strength  she  dropped  limp  at  his 
bedside. 

"Uncle,  Uncle,"  she  cried,  and  the  tone  of  her 
voice,  in  the  midst  of  her  sobbing,  revealed  the  an 
guish  of  her  heart. 

"It's  all  over  now,  Isabel,"  said  Leonidas,  placing 
his  arm  around  her.  "Your  uncle  has  solved  the 
problem." 


THE  SUICIDE  231 

"A  suicide!"  sobbed  Isabel,  as  she  dropped  her 
head  against  Leonidas's  shoulder  and  began  to  cry- 
bitterly.  "And  a  murderer,  too." 

Isabel  raised  her  head  and  with  an  heroic  effort 
ceased  sobbing.  She  looked  steadily  into  Leonidas's 
face  for  a  moment,  then  asked,  "Leonidas,  did  my 
Uncle  Gabriel  murder  Count  de  Bussy?" 

"It  is  as  you  think,  Isabel,"  said  Leonidas,  sadly. 
"Your  uncle  is  a  murderer  and  a  suicide.  There  is 
no  doubt  about  his  having  killed  Count  de  Bussy. 
What  a  problem  he  solves!" 

"What  problem,  Leonidas?"  questioned  Isabel, 
anxiously. 

"The  problem  as  to  what  should  be  done  with 
him,"  answered  Leonidas.  "I  knew  him  to  be  a 
murderer.  I  thought  so  when  I  saw  you  in  the 
pines,  but  was  not  absolutely  certain.  There  was 
a  train  of  circumstances  that  always  led  to  him 
whenever  it  was  followed,  but  then  the  train  was 
not  complete  until  Uncle  Zeke  told  me  of  the 
tragedy  in  the  pine  woods.  It  lacked  the  two  last 
links:  one  being  Uncle  Zeke's  statement,  the  other 
the  finding  of  the  paper.  I  did  not  tell  you  what  I 
believed,  because  I  was  not  absolutely  certain.  A 
part  of  my  information  was  wanting.  This  is  why 
I  did  not  say  before  that  your  uncle  was  a  mur 
derer." 

"Did  Uncle  Zeke  tell  you?"  asked  Isabel,  with  a 
nervous  tremor  in  her  voice. 

"Yes,  Uncle  Zeke  told  the  whole  story  just  before 
he  died,  and  his  story  was  corroborated  by  the 
finding  of  the  Count's  private  instruction  from  Na- 


232         IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

poleon  III  in  a  hollow  tree  near  the  spot  where  he 
was  murdered,"  said  Leonidas,  taking  the  docu 
ment  from  his  pocket  and  pointing  to  the  name  on 
the  detached  piece. 

"But  I  interrupted  you,"  said  Isabel.  "What 
problem  is  solved  by  my  uncle's  suicide?" 

"If  your  uncle  had  lived,  I  could  not  have  car 
ried  his  secret." 

"You  should  not  have  done  so,  even  though  the 
murderer  was  my  uncle,"  replied  Isabel,  with  con 
viction.  "He  should  have  suffered  for  his  crime, 
and  I—" 

"Don't  think  of  it  again.  No  matter  what 
turn  the  case  might  have  taken  I  would  love 
you  still  and  make  you  mine.  Should  the  public 
ever  know  it  will  in  no  way  effect  my  love  for 
you." 

"But  this  does  not  change  the  fact  that  I  am 
the  niece,  and  live  in  the  house  of  my  uncle  who  is 
a  murderer  and  a  suicide,  and  you  know  what  that 
means  to  me,  and  what  it  may  mean  to  you  in  the 
future.  I  am  not  willing  to  embarrass  you  or  to 
put  myself  in  a  position  to  be  humiliated." 

"Why,  Isabel,"  answered  Leonidas,  with  much 
tenderness,  "you  surely  do  not  mean  to  reflect  upon 
me  by  forecasting  my  future  conduct  toward  you. 
I  love  you,  and  wish  to  give  you  my  name.  We 
may  now  bury  this  dark  chapter  forever  out  of 
sight.  Isabel,  promise  me,  here  and  now,  never  to 
refer  to  it  again." 

"Gabe  Arnold  will  go  to  the  asylum,"  announced 
Dr.  Demster,  in  his  long-drawn  nasal  twang,  as  he 


THE  SUICIDE  233 

opened  the  door  and  came  into  the  room  uncere 
moniously. 

The  old  physician  was  only  an  instant  in  real 
izing  what  had  happened  in  his  absence.  A  glance 
at  Arnold  as  he  lay  upon  the  bed,  with  the  knife  in 
sight  and  the  blood-stained  clothing,  was  all  the  ex 
planation  necessary.  He  knew  Arnold  had  reached 
the  end  and  had  taken  his  own  life.  He  was  sure, 
too,  it  had  been  done  so  quickly  that  Leonidas  and 
Isabel  had  been  unable  to  prevent  it. 

"Not  to  the  asylum,  Doctor,"  said  Leonidas. 
"The  problem  is  solved.  We  have  nothing  further 
to  do  with  this  crime.  This  is  a  terrible  ending  of 
the  case,  but  I  am  free  to  confess  that  since  it  came 
in  this  manner  there  are  some  compensations  to 
those  who  are  most  involved." 

"He  must  have  done  it  very  quickly,"  said  the 
doctor.  "He  didn't  get  as  big  a  dose  as  I  intended 
or  he  would  have  slept  until  now." 

"It  was  quickly  done,"  said  Leonidas.  "Isabel 
observed  him  first,  sitting  upon  the  side  of  the  bed 
with  a  knife  in  his  hand.  She  called  my  attention, 
but  before  anything  could  be  done  to  prevent  it  he 
had  driven  the  blade  hilt-deep  into  his  breast.  I 
suspect  it  went  to  his  heart,  for  he  died  with  a 
groan." 

"Then  he  said  nothing?"  inquired  the  doctor, 
surprised. 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Leonidas,  "just  before  plunging 
the  knife  he  pointed  toward  the  corner,  there,  and 
said,  'There — it's — there,  Isabel !' ' 

"Then  we'll  look,"  broke  in  the  doctor. 


234         IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

They  went  to  the  little  cupboard,  and  with  some 
effort  sprang  the  lock  and  opened  the  door.  On 
the  top  shelf,  under  the  lid  of  a  musty  old  book, 
they  found  a  paper  in  Arnold's  handwriting.  It 
was  the  paper  which  Isabel  saw  him  write  a  few 
days  before.  Across  the  top  edge  of  the  paper  were 
the  words,  "The  last  statement  and  request  of  Ga 
briel  Arnold,"  written  in  a  bold  hand. 

"I  am  a  desperate  man.  I  have  shed  human 
blood,  and  that  the  blood  of  a  man  who  never  of 
fended  me  in  the  least.  There  is  not  the  slightest 
fact  that  justifies  it.  So  far  as  I  am  concerned,  he 
was  an  innocent  man.  I  am  the  cruel  murderer  of 
Count  de  Bussy.  I  murdered  him  for  a  small  sum 
of  money.  Since  the  day  of  the  eclipse  of  the  sun 
I  have  known  nothing  of  the  world,  and  have  de 
sired  to  know  nothing.  Life  to  me  has  been  a  bur 
den  and  I  have  often  wished  I  might  die.  I  would 
terminate  my  miserable  existence  but  for  the  fact 
that  I  fear  to  face  the  consequences  of  my  wicked 
deed  and  meet  the  Count  in  the  other  world.  I  am 
a  coward,  and  I  know  it.  If  I  am  ever  brave 
enough  I  shall  meet  the  Count  face  to  face.  I 
have  tried  to  run  the  dagger  to  my  wicked  heart 
but  have  always  failed  because  of  cowardice.  Some 
day  I'll  be  brave  enough  to  die  and  face  my  vic 
tim. 

"I  wish  to  be  buried  where  the  world  can  never 
find  my  grave  (if  it's  to  be  a  grave)  ;  so  that  my 
body,  which  has  been  driven  into  crime,  may  rest 
while  my  wretched  soul  is  enduring  its  doom.  I 
do  not  deserve  a  man's  burial.  To  bury  me  like  a 


THE  SUICIDE  235 

dog  would  be  a  great  honor  to  one  so  wicked,  and 
I  ask  this  boon. 

"I  trust  my  niece  will  find  this  paper  when  I  am 
dead,  and  do  as  I  request. 

"These  are  my  wishes.: 

"i.  At  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  consign  my 
wretched  body  to  a  hole  in  the  ground.  Don't  call 
it  a  grave.  Bury  it  at  the  root  of  the  third  tree  of 
the  sixth  row  in  the  old  apple  orchard — the  place 
where  my  hound  dogs  have  lain  for  more  than 
forty  years. 

"2.  When  buried  with  my  dogs,  fix  the  place  so 
that  no  one  will  ever  find  the  spot.  I  wish  to  be 
forgotten  forever.  I  do  not  deserve  to  live  in  the 
memory  of  any  mortal. 

"3.  Do  not  honor  me  with  a  coffin.  If  the  law 
requires  one,  put  me  in  a  yellow-pine  box  fastened 
together  with  white-oak  pegs. 

"If  this  paper  falls  under  the  eye  of  my  niece 
first,  I  trust  she  will  do  as  I  request,  and  call  only 
one  or  two  others  to  assist  her,  and  pledge  them 
to  secrecy. 

"This  is  my  last  statement  and  request,  and  may 
God  have  mercy  on  my  soul. 

"GABRIEL  ARNOLD." 

"Well!  Well!  Well!"  exclaimed  the  Doctor, 
"We'll  do  as  he  wishes,  and  bury  him  among  his 
dogs." 


CHAPTER  XXVII 
A  CHANGE  OF  MIND 

GABRIEL  ARNOLD'S  wishes  were  observed,  as  far 
as  practicable.  He  was  buried  two  hours  after  mid 
night  under  the  third  tree  of  the  sixth  row  in  the 
old  apple  orchard,  which  had  been  the  graveyard 
for  his  hounds  for  more  than  forty  years. 

The  burial  was  over  and  the  little  company 
had  returned  to  the  house.  They  were  about  to 
ascend  to  the  veranda  when  Isabel  paused  and 
staggered,  and  would  have  dropped  powerless  at 
the  step  had  not  Dr.  Demster  stood  near  and  sup 
ported  her. 

"My  uncle,  my  uncle,  a  murderer,  and  a — " 
she  moaned,  but  had  not  consciousness  to  finish  the 
speech. 

She  was  borne  by  the  doctor  and  Leonidas  into 
the  house,  and  more  than  an  hour  passed  in  the 
use  of  restoratives  before  she  regained  control  of 
herself.  The  young  man  had  dropped  on  one 
knee  at  the  side  of  the  couch  and  rubbed  her  brow, 
looking  anxiously  into  her  pale  face  for  a  time  be 
fore  a  word  was  said. 

"Is  it  serious,  Doctor?"  he  asked,  much  con 
cerned. 

"I  trust  not,"  said  the  physician,  as  he  felt  her 
pulse  with  one  hand,  and  pinched  her  eyelid  with 


A  CHANGE  OF  MIND  237 

the  other.     "No,  I  trust  not.    Her  pulse  is  strong, 
and  her  eye  is  clear." 

"Will  she  soon  recover?  What's  the  trouble? 
Has  she  only  fainted?" 

"It  is  the  natural  reaction  from  the  long  and 
terrible  strain,"  answered  the  doctor.  "The  girl 
has  been  worried  almost  past  endurance.  She  could 
not  help  having  suspicion  concerning  her  uncle. 
She  feared  the  worst  in  his  case,  but  she  has  borne 
it  heroically.  Now  that  it  is  all  over  the  reaction 
was  more  than  she  could  stand.  But  I  think  she 
will  soon  be  well  again." 

"Do  you  think  she  suspected  her  uncle  of  mur 
dering  Count  de  Bussy?" 

"Since  my  second  visit,  I  think  she  did,"  an 
swered  the  doctor. 

"I  fear  so,  too,  and  that  is  why  she  has  not  con 
sented  to  become  my  wife." 

"What's  that?"  demanded  the  doctor,  quickly. 
"Hasn't  consented  to  become  your  wife?  Why, 
what  does  this  mean?  I  thought  you  would  marry 
without  delay." 

"She  thinks  the  wickedness  of  her  uncle  stands 
as  an  obstacle  in  the  way,"  said  Leonidas  sadly, 
gazing  at  her.  "She  calls  herself  an  unfortunate 
girl,  and,  while  I  am  sure  of  her  love,  she  insists 
that,  because  of  her  relationship  to  such  a  wicked 
man  as  Gabriel  Arnold,  we  ought  not  to  marry,  as 
it  might  discredit  me." 

"She  is  nobler  even  than  I  thought,"  said  the 
doctor,  with  satisfaction  in  face  and  voice.  "How 
do  you  feel  about  this?" 


238         IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

"I  honor  her  for  the  position  she  takes,"  replied 
Leonidas,  "but  I  am  anxious  that  she  should  yield 
her  point.  I  am  not  the  least  bit  concerned  about 
the  opinions  of  society.  Isabel  Proctor  is  a  true, 
upright  girl.  She  is  unfortunate  to  have  had  an 
uncle  like  Gabriel  Arnold,  but  she  is  in  no  way 
responsible  for  this  misfortune;  and  I  think  I 
should  be  cruel  indeed  to  pay  any  attention  to  it. 
I  love  her  and  I  know  my  love  is  returned,  and  I 
shall  marry  her  if  her  objection  can  be  overcome." 

"Then  you  don't  seem  to  care  what  comments 
may  follow,"  said  the  doctor,  wishing  to  know  how 
the  young  man  would  view  the  matter. 

"I'm  sorry  that  Isabel's  uncle  was  a  murderer 
and  a  suicide.  I  am  also  sorry  to  think  there  would 
be  any  unfavorable  comment.  But  Isabel  is  pure 
and  good  and  that  settles  the  matter  with  me.  Yes, 
Doctor,  I  shall  marry  her,  and  be  happy,  no  matter 
what  people  may  say." 

"Again  you  are  a  hero,  my  boy,"  exclaimed  the 
doctor,  "and  soon  you  will  have  all  I  possess  and 
be  independent.  You'll  be  rich.  Do  you  realize 
it?" 

"Yes,  I  think  I  realize  it,"  answered  Leonidas, 
"and  I  shall  be  happy  to  give  her  what  she  deserves 
and  thereby  compensate  for  the  suffering  she  has 
endured.  She  has  had  a  hard  time,  but  she  has 
been  heroic  in  it  all.  I  trust  she  will  see  it  as  I 
do.  Doctor,  I  shall  never  be  governed  by  the  un 
charitable  whims  of  the  people.  It  needs  only  Is 
abel's  consent  and  we  shall  be  married.  I  am  sure 
this  is  your  desire,  for — " 


A  CHANGE  OF  MIND  239 

During  the  conversation  Dr.  Demster  had  ta 
ken  a  seat  by  the  bedside  and  was  holding  Isabel's 
hand,  while  Leonidas  stood  with  his  hand  upon  the 
old  physician's  shoulder. 

Isabel  now  stirred.  She  turned  her  head  and 
looked  about  the  room  with  unseeing  eyes.  She 
seemed  dazed,  but  in  a  moment  she  moaned : 

"O,  the  shame  of  it!  Leonidas  will  be  dis 
graced." 

"Dearest  Isabel,"  said  Leonidas,  quickly. 

"My  uncle,  my  uncle — a  murderer,  and  a  suicide. 
Murdered  Count  de  Bussy.  Killed  himself,"  she 
said  distinctly,  turning  her  head  and  looking  up 
into  Leonidas's  face. 

"It's  all  true,"  said  the  young  man,  "and  sad 
enough,  but  will  you  not  forget  it?  Let  us  make 
the  best  of  the  future.  Here  is  our  friend — the 
doctor.  When  you  are  stronger  we  will  talk  about 
our  plans." 

Isabel  was  weak,  and  greatly  in  need  of  rest,  so 
it  was  toward  the  middle  of  the  forenoon  before 
the  subject  was  mentioned  again.  Then  the  three 
left  the  house  and  walked  leisurely  down  the  syca 
more  lane  and  entered  the  path  which  passed 
through  the  pines,  stopping  at  the  gum  log. 

"It  was  here  that  we  saw  the  red-bird  that 
seemed  so  happy,"  said  Isabel,  and  it  was  evident 
that  she  entertained  the  same  sad  thoughts  that  had 
annoyed  her  when  she  last  visited  the  spot. 

"Yes,"  admitted  Leonidas,  "it  was  here  we  saw 
the  bird,  but  it  was  here,  too,  that  you  made  me 
happy  when  you  told  me  you  loved  me." 


240         IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

"Yes,  you  were  happy,"  Isabel  answered,  "but 
I  could  not  help  feeling  sad  in  my  own  heart,  and 
sorry  that  you  loved  me.  I  felt  that  your  love 
should  have  been  bestowed  upon  another — one  less 
unworthy." 

"But  you  don't  feel  so  now;  do  you,  Isabel?  Have 
you  not  dismissed  that  delusion?" 

"I  still  feel  that  I  am  an  unfortunate  girl,"  in 
sisted  Isabel,  "and  that  you  do  not  deserve  the  em 
barrassment  that  I  would  of  necessity  cause  you." 

"But  listen,  my  girl,"  broke  in  the  doctor.  "I 
know  how  you  feel.  It  is  very  thoughtful,  but 
don't  press  the  matter  any  further.  This  is  my 
boy  now  and  you  are  dear  to  me  on  his  account. 
He  loves  you  and  you  love  him.  I  want  you  to 
marry  and  be  happy,  so  I  can  come  to  see  you  once 
in  a  while.  This  is  the  old  doctor's  advice.  You 
will  do  this,  I  am  sure." 

"We  will  do  better,"  interrupted  Leonidas.  "We 
will  marry  and  live  at  Briarcrest,  and  you  shall  live 
with  us.  You  have  been  alone  long  enough  and 
it  will  gladden  our  life  if  you  will  stay  at  our 
home." 

The  old  physician  was  not  a  little  stirred  by  this 
new  idea  proposed  by  Leonidas.  It  would  be  a  great 
change  for  a  man  who  had  lived  alone  so  many 
years,  and  he  hardly  knew  just  how  he  could  con 
form  to  the  new  and  changed  condition,  but  he  was 
impressed  with  the  suggestion.  He  put  his  hands 
on  the  shoulders  of  the  young  people  and,  address 
ing  Isabel,  said :  "If  you  marry  Leonidas  will  you 
let  me  live  with  you?  I  would  like  to  be  with  my 


A  CHANGE  OF  MIND  241 

boy;  and  if  you  love  him  I  want  to  be  with  you, 
too.  Say :  will  you  dismiss  that  idea  you  have  and 
marry  soon?  And  then  I  am  sure  we  will  all  be 
happy.  Tell  me,  will  you  do  this?" 

"O,  Doctor,"  said  Isabel,  with  sadness  and  un 
certainty  in  her  voice,  "is  it  right  for  me  to  marry 
Leonidas  and  have  him  discredited  for  life?  You 
know  the  people  would  point  at  him  in  derision  be 
cause  he  had  married  Gabriel  Arnold's  niece.  My 
uncle  was  a  murderer  and  a  suicide,  and  the  stigma 
will  rest  upon  me  for  life.  I  do  not  think  Leonidas 
should  be  so  handicapped." 

"But  nobody  knows  that  your  uncle  was  a  mur 
derer,"  responded  the  doctor.  "Nobody  but  our 
selves  know  how  de  Bussy  came  to  his  death.  Let 
it  be  a  secret  forever,  and  nobody  need  ever  know. 
The  fact  that  your  uncle  committed  suicide  will  not 
disgrace  you,  as  many  a  worthy  man  in  a  moment 
of  temporary  insanity  has  taken  his  own  life." 

"It  is  true,"  replied  Isabel,  "that  no  one  else 
knows  of  the  murder  of  the  Count,  but  I  shall  not 
be  content  until  his  poor  wife  knows  about  it — at 
least  until  her  suspense  is  relieved.  The  poor  thing 
is  frantic  because  she  does  not  know  whether  he  is 
dead  or  alive.  I  shall  not  rest  until  she  is  informed 
that  he  is  dead.  Until  you  and  Leonidas  consent 
to  this  I  shall  forever  say  'No.' ' 

"It  is  right  that  the  woman  should  know,"  ad 
mitted  the  doctor,  "but  there  is  a  way  to  tell  her 
and  still  not  afflict  yourself  any  more  than  neces 
sary.  Yes,  she  should  know.  But  even  this 
should  not  prevent  your  marriage.  You  marry 


242         IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

Leonidas,  and  the  sooner  it's  done  the  bet 
ter.  I'll  attend  to  arrangements.  I'll  get  the 
license,  then  fetch  the  parson,  and  such  like.  I'll 
be  back  before  the  rise  of  another  sun.  Mind  that, 
now,  my  children." 

The  old  physician  walked  slowly  away,  leaving 
the  lovers  beneath  the  twining  branches  of  the 
dogwood  and  swamp  laurel. 

"Isabel,  dearest,  will  you  dismiss  all  objections 
from  your  mind?  Tell  me,  dearest,  will  you  be 
mine?"  asked  Leonidas,  when  the  doctor  had  gone. 

"Leonidas,  Leonidas,"  she  answered  sadly,  "do 
you  know  what  you  ask?  And  do  you  mean  it?" 

"I  know,  dearest  Isabel,  and  I  mean  it  with  all 
my  heart.  Will  you  consent  ?" 

Isabel  looked  up  into  Leonidas's  face  for  a  mo 
ment  before  she  replied.  She  hesitated,  then  at 
tempted  to  speak,  but  recalled  her  words  before 
they  could  pass  her  lips.  The  decision  was  momen 
tous.  She  could  scarcely  tell  what  to  say. 

"Leonidas,— I— I—" 

"Tell  me.  Tell  me,  darling,"  said  Leonidas, 
"that  you  will  be  mine.  Say  so,  dearest." 

"O,  Leonidas,  Leonidas,  you  do  not  realize  all 
that  will  follow,  I  fear,  or  you  would  not  wish  me 
to  consent.  Again  I  say  so  noble  a  name  as  yours 
should  not  be  blighted  by  marriage  with  a  name 
so  scarlet  as  mine." 

"I  know  what  your  mind  magnifies  so,  dearest," 
said  Leonidas,  "but  in  spite  of  it  I  love  you,  and 
must  have  your  consent  to  be  mine." 

"No,  no,  it  cannot  be,"  said  Isabel,  tearfully,  but 


A  CHANGE  OF  MIND  243 

still  hesitating.  Suddenly  she  threw  aside  the  light 
figured  shawl  she  wore,  and  thrust  her  hand  nerv 
ously  into  the  bosom  of  her  dress,  taking  from 
it  a  note  which  she  handed  to  Leonidas. 

"What  is  it,  Isabel?"  he  asked,  observing  that 
she  was  greatly  agitated  as  she  passed  it  to  him. 

"O,"  she  cried,  "can  it  be  possible?  Is  it  true 
of  me?  You  see  by  this  I  can  never  be  yours.  I 
should  disgrace  you  forever." 

"PORTSMOUTH,  VA." 

"ISABEL  PROCTOR  :  I  write  this  to  let  you  know 
that  the  thought  of  you  is  obnoxious  to  me,  and 
that  any  relationship  between  you  and  my  son  Le 
onidas  meets  with  my  positive  disapproval.  You 
are  not  worthy  of  a  Darwood.  It  is  bad  enough  to 
be  poor,  but  the  fact  that  a  girl  makes  her  home 
with  such  a  man  as  Gabriel  Arnold,  is  sufficient 
to  brand  her  forever  and  unfit  her  for  associa 
tion  with  respectable  people. 

"Besides,  it  may  be  said  to  your  discredit  that 
there  is  a  dark  mystery  connected  with  your  birth. 
To  speak  frankly,  you  are  an  illegitimate  child  of 
unknown  parents.  I  want  you  to  understand  that 
I  cannot  tolerate  the  thought  of  Leonidas  associat 
ing  with  such  a  person  when  there  is  the  remotest 
danger  of  her  becoming  his  wife.  I  believe  such 
an  event  is  possible,  and  that  it  accounts  for  his 
being  away  from  his  home  at  this  time. 

"If  you  have  any  regard  for  the  wishes  of  re 
spectable  members  of  society  you  will  discourage 
the  attentions  of  my  son. 

"THOMAS  DARWOOD." 


244         IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

When  Leonidas  finished  reading  the  note  he  de 
liberately  tore  it  into  several  pieces  and  threw  it 
under  foot. 

"This  is  what  I  care  for  the  insult,"  he  said,  as 
he  raised  his  heel  and  turned  upon  the  sole  of  his 
shoe,  grinding  the  bits  of  paper  deeper  into  the 
ground.  "I  heard  this  before.  I  knew  what  my 
father  thought  when  I  left  home,  Isabel;  and  now 
I  renew  my  entreaty." 

"Is  it  nothing  to  you,  Leonidas,  that  I  am  of  un 
known  birth?"  asked  Isabel.  "That  I  am  an  ille 
gitimate  child?" 

"Not  in  the  least,"  he  replied,  emphatically.  "It 
is  unjust  to  blame  people  for  what  they  cannot 
control.  If  the  worst  that  is  said  by  my  father  be 
true  you  are  in  no  sense  responsible  for  it  and  I 
shall  not  allow  it  to  influence  me.  I  am  more  anx 
ious  than  ever  to  hear  from  your  lips  the  words 
which  will  make  me  happy.  Will  you  say  them 
now?" 

"But,  Leonidas,  I  have  a  strange  idea,  and  it  has 
annoyed  me  every  hour  since  I  received  your  fath 
er's  note.  Suppose  it  turns  out  at  last  that  I  am 
the  child  of  Gabriel  Arnold,  the  man  I  have  be 
lieved  to  be  only  my  uncle?  Is  this  why  he  took 
me,  and  is  this  why  he  has  been  so  cruel?  Did  he 
take  me  because  he  felt  he  must?  Leonidas,  you 
cannot  tell  how  this  awful  thought  has  harrowed 
my  heart.  The  child  of  Gabriel  Arnold!  He  was 
never  married.  O,  it  cannot  be." 

"Isabel,  should  I  believe  it  all  to  be  true,  it  would 
not  change  my  love  for  you.  I  know,  dearest  Isa- 


A  CHANGE  OF  MIND  245 

bel,  what  I  ask,  and  I  mean  it  with  all  my  heart. 
Will  you  tell  me  that  you  will  be  mine?" 

"Leonidas,  Leonidas,"  cried  Isabel  in  the  climax 
of  her  struggle,  "I — I — ,  well — " 

"Make  me  happy,"  pleaded  Leonidas.  "Let  your 
self  be  happy.  Speak,  dearest." 

"I  am  yours,  Leonidas,"  she  breathed  faintly. 
"I  will  be  yours  forever." 

"I  am  happy,  Isabel.  I  shall  always  remember 
this  moment,  for  you  have  promised  to  be  mine 
forever." 

Leonidas  placed  his  arm  about  Isabel's  shoulders, 
drawing  her  to  his  side.  She  leaned  against  him 
with  her  head  resting  on  his  breast.  She  looked  up 
into  his  face ;  her  lips  trembled ;  her  bosom  heaved ; 
the  tears  gathered  in  her  eyes.  She  made  an  effort 
to  speak,  but  words  failed  her  in  this  moment  of 
transcendent  happiness. 

"What  is  it,  Isabel?  Can't  you  tell  me?  You 
are  not  sad  now,  are  you — not  as  you  were  when 
the  red-bird  played  across  the  path,  yonder?" 

"I'm  happy,  now,"  replied  Isabel,  softly.  "In 
spite  of  it  all,  Leonidas,  I  am  happy." 

"Isabel!    Isabel!" 

Just  as  the  half -spent  moon  peeped  up  from  be 
hind  the  pines  Dr.  Demster  drove  up  to  the  stile1 
in  front  of  the  Arnold  homestead,  accompanied  by 
the  Rev.  Vernon  Eskridge.  It  was  he  who  had  dis 
coursed  upon  the  Beatitudes,  and  who,  without 
knowing  it,  had  changed  the  current  of  Leonidas 

1The  stile,  the  sycamores  and  many  other  landmarks  have  long  since 
disappeared  from  Briarcrest. 


246         IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PINES 

Darwood's  life.  It  was  fitting  that  he  should  be 
present  now. 

As  the  minister  and  the  doctor  alighted  a  man 
stepped  down  from  the  veranda,  and  with  long 
strides  disappeared  around  the  corner  of  the  house. 

"Did  you  see  that  man?"  asked  the  minister.  "He 
has  on  a  uniform.  I  presume  he  is  a  Confederate 
officer.  He  is  one  of  the  guests,  I  suppose." 

"No,  he  is  not  a  guest.  He  is  an  intruder,"  said 
the  doctor,  "and  his  presence  about  here  means  no 
good,  I  fear.  He  has  been  a  great  annoyance  to 
young  Darwood,  and  I  am  sorry  he  has  turned  up 
at  this  time." 

"Do  you  anticipate  trouble?"  asked  the  minister. 

The  doctor's  manner  indicated  a  desire  to  dis 
miss  the  subject,  so  the  two  men  passed  quietly  into 
the  house.  Besides  Dr.  Demster,  the  minister,  Le- 
onidas  and  Isabel,  none  was  present  except  Ezra 
and  Aunt  Dinah.  It  was  the  wish  of  both  Isabel 
and  Leonidas  that  only  their  nearest  and  tried 
friends  should  witness  the  ceremony. 

As  the  parson  read  from  his  book,  "If  any  can 
show  just  cause  why  they  may  not  lawfully  be 
joined  together,  let  him  now  speak,"  a  sound  was 
heard  from  the  veranda.  The  front  door  opened 
and  footsteps  were  heard  shuffling  down  the  hall. 
There  was  a  pause  in  the  reading,  as  a  sad-faced 
man,  bent  with  the  weight  of  years,  came  into  the 
room.  He  moved  to  where  the  company  stood,  but 
then  remained  as  motionless  as  a  statue  for  a  mo 
ment,  eyeing  the  two  young  people  as  they  stood 
before  the  minister.  The  silence  at  last  became  op- 


A  CHANGE  OF  MIND  247 

pressive.  Leonidas  began  to  show  signs  of  anxiety, 
for  he  anticipated  some  inopportune  scene.  Isabel 
gazed  in  wonder  at  the  aged  stranger.  She  had 
never  seen  him  before,  but  she  trembled  as  she  ob 
served  his  peculiar  expression.  She  turned  toward 
Leonidas,  grasping  him  tightly  by  the  arm,  and 
looking  anxiously  into  his  face  asked  "Who  is  it? 
and  what  is  he  here  for?" 

"I  approve  of  it,"  said  the  old  man,  with  a  shak 
ing  voice.  "Before  God,  I  give  my  approval.  I 
have  been  wrong.  My  son  has  been  right.  I  have 
repented  in  bitter  tears.  I  have  been  both  foolish 
and  uncharitable.  O,  forgive  me!"  The  old  man 
placed  his  hands  upon  the  young  couple's  heads, 
and  looking  intently  at  Isabel,  he  said:  "From 
henceforth  you  are  my  daughter.  Forgive  me  for 
a  great  wrong.  How  wicked  I  was  to  resort  to  a 
villainous  slander,  and  impugn  your  good  name  to 
cause  my  son  to  hate  you !  It  was  a  lie.  I  knew  it 
at  the  time.  Forgive  me  for  what  I  have  done." 

Then  he  f  ell  on  Leonidas's  neck  and  sobbed  aloud: 
"How  unjust  I  have  been!  O,  to  what  depths  of 
sin  my  prejudices  have  led!  Forgive  me  for  the 
evil  I  did.  I  have  repented.  Forgive  a  wicked  and 
prejudiced  old  man.  Leonidas,  my  son,  your  faith 
is  now  mine,  and  shall  be  forever.  You  must  bring 
your  wife  home  to  see  mother,  without  delay." 


EPILOGUE 

IN  less  than  a  fortnight  after  the  wedding  at 
Briarcrest,  Leonidas  and  Isabel  called  at  the  home 
of  the  French  Count's  wife.  They  related  the  facts 
concerning  the  murder  of  her  husband,  and  gave 
her  the  medal  and  the  paper  containing  the  Count's 
private  instructions  from  Napoleon  III.  The  poor 
woman  expressed  her  gratitude  for  the  sad  news, 
as  it  was  a  relief  to  know  the  worst  and  to  have  sus 
pense  ended. 

Nothing  was  ever  positively  known  concerning 
the  disposition  of  the  Count's  body.  In  1869  the 
bones  of  a  man  were  accidentally  discovered  in  a 
stone  culvert  that  received  the  water  from  the 
branch  that  ran  through  Arnold's  farm  and  emptied 
into  the  Elizabeth  river.  The  skeleton  was  sup 
posed  to  be  that  of  the  French  nobleman.  Leonidas 
Darwood  had  little  doubt  as  to  its  identity  when  he 
observed  that  the  skull  was  fractured  in  two  places. 

Concerning  Captain  Vantine  it  is  sufficient  to  say 
that  when  he  strode  away  from  the  veranda  at 
Briarcrest  and  disappeared  around  the  corner  of 
the  house  he  realized  that  all  hope  of  gaining  the 
love  of  Isabel  Proctor  was  gone;  for  he  now 
knew  she  was  about  to  become  the  wife  of  his  rival. 
He  lost  all  interest  in  life  and  became  reckless  and 
despondent.  In  General  Pickett's  charge  at  Gettys 
burg  he  was  among  the  first  to  reach  the  stone 


EPILOGUE  249 

fence,  and  cheered  lustily  when  the  Confederate 
flag  was  placed  upon  the  rampart.  He  was  in  the 
midst  of  the  bloody  onslaught  in  the  Wilderness 
and  at  Cold  Harbor,  and  at  the  battle  of  the  Crater 
his  daring  deeds  were  the  subject  of  much  com 
ment.  When  the  cause  of  the  South  was  acknowl 
edged  to  be  lost,  and  General  Lee  laid  aside  his 
sword  at  Appomattox,  Captain  Vantine  was  one  of 
the  last  to  admit  defeat. 

Jack  Mobaly  was  never  apprehended  and  he  was 
not  seen  in  the  vicinity  of  Deep  Creek  again,  though 
at  times  his  name  was  connected  with  desperate 
deeds  done  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  Great  Dis 
mal  Swamp. 


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